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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/2008-h.zip b/2008-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2bad79d --- /dev/null +++ b/2008-h.zip diff --git a/2008-h/2008-h.htm b/2008-h/2008-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a8d0eb --- /dev/null +++ b/2008-h/2008-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4826 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Mazelli, and Other Poems, by George W. Sands + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mazelli, and Other Poems, by George W. Sands + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mazelli, and Other Poems + +Author: George W. Sands + +Release Date: October 23, 2008 [EBook #2008] +Last Updated: February 6, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAZELLI, AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + MAZELLI, AND OTHER POEMS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By George W. Sands + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> Dedication. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>MAZELLI</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Canto II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Canto III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> Notes To Mazelli </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> <b>THE MISANTHROPE RECLAIMED</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> ACT I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ACT II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> ACT III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ACT IV. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkmisc"> <b>MISCELLANEOUS POEMS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkisabel"> ISABEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE LOCK OF HAIR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE DESERTED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> AFTER WITNESSING A DEATH-SCENE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> LOVE AND FANCY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> TO A LADY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE OLD MAN AND THE BOY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> ACLE AT THE GRAVE OF NERO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> THE VENETIAN GIRL'S EVENING SONG. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> TO ISABEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + Under this head, I desire to say a few words upon three subjects, —my + friends, my book, and myself. + </p> + <p> + My friends, though not legion in number, have been, in their efforts in my + behalf, disinterested, sincere, and energetic. + </p> + <p> + My book: I lay it, as my first offering, at the shrine of my country's + fame. "Would it were worthier." While our soldiers are first in every + field where they meet our enemies, and while the wisdom of our legislators + is justified before all the world, in the perfection of our beloved + institutions, our literature languishes. This should not be so; for + literature, with its kindred arts, makes the true glory of a nation. We + bow in spirit when Greece is named, not alone because she was the mother + of heroes and lawgivers, but because her hand rocked the cradle of a + literature as enduring as it is beautiful and brilliant, and cherished in + their infancy those arts which eventually repaid her nursing care in a + rich harvest of immortal renown. + </p> + <p> + For myself I have little to say. I have not written for fame, and if my + life had been a happy one I should never have written at all. As it was, I + early came to drink of the bitter cup; and sorrow, whilst it cuts us off + from the outer, drives us back upon the inner world;—and then the + unquiet demon of ceaseless thought is roused, and the brain becomes "a + whirling gulf of phantasy and flame," and we rave and—write! Yes, + write! And men read and talk about genius, and, God help them! Often envy + its unhappy possessors the fatal gift which lies upon heart and brain like + molten lead! Of all who have gained eminence among men as poets, how few + are there of whom it may not be justly said, "They have come up through + much tribulation." + </p> + <p> + G. W. S. <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Dedication. + </h2> + <h3> + Frederick City, September 7th, 1849. + </h3> + <p> + Dear Sir,— + </p> + <p> + In humble testimony of my gratitude for your services as a friend, and my + admiration and respect for your character and worth as an author and a + man, permit me to dedicate to you the poem of "Mazelli." + </p> + <p> + Your obedient servant, + </p> + <p> + George W. Sands. + </p> + <p> + To Samuel Tyler, Esq., + </p> + <p> + Of the Maryland Bar. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAZELLI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Canto I. + + I. + + "Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed, + The sultry hour of noon is near, + Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need, + Stay, then, and, taste its sweetness here. + The mountain path which thou hast sped + Is steep, and difficult to tread, + And many a farther step 'twill cost, + Ere thou wilt find another host; + But if thou scorn'st not humble fare, + Such as the pilgrim loves to share,— + Not luxury's enfeebling spoil, + But bread secured by patient toil— + Then lend thine ear to my request, + And be the old man's welcome guest. + Thou seest yon aged willow tree, + In all its summer pomp arrayed, + 'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me, + My cot is built beneath its shade; + And from its roots clear waters burst + To cool thy lip, and quench thy thirst:— + I love it, and if harm should, come + To it, I think that I should weep; + 'Tis as a guardian of my home, + So faithfully it seems to keep + Its watch above the spot where I + Have lived so long, and mean to die. + Come, pardon me for prating thus, + But age, you know, is garrulous; + And in life's dim decline, we hold + Thrice dear whate'er we loved of old,— + The stream upon whose banks we played, + The forest through whose shades we strayed, + The spot to which from sober truth + We stole to dream the dreams of youth, + The single star of all Night's zone, + Which we have chosen as our own, + Each has its haunting memory + Of things which never more may be." + + II. + + Thus spake an aged man to one + Who manhood's race had just begun. + His form of manhood's noblest length + Was strung with manhood's stoutest strength, + And burned within his eagle eye + The blaze of tameless energy— + Not tameless but untamed—for life + Soon breaks the spirit with its strife + And they who in their souls have nursed + The brightest visions, are the first + To learn how Disappointment's blight + Strips life of its illusive light; + How dreams the heart has dearest held + Are ever first to be dispelled; + How hope, and power, and love, and fame, + Are each an idly sounding name, + A phantom, a deceit, a wile, + That woos and dazzles to beguile. + But time had not yet tutored him, + The youth of hardy heart and limb, + Who quickly drew his courser's bit; + For though too haughty to submit, + In strife for mastery with men, + Yet to a prayer, or a caress, + His soul became all gentleness,— + An infant's hand might lead him then: + So answered he,—"In sooth the way + My steed and I have passed to-day, + Is of such weary, winding length, + As sorely to have tried our strength, + And I will bless the bread and salt + Of him who kindly bids me halt." + Then springing lightly to the ground, + His girth and saddle he unbound, + And turning from the path aside, + The steed and guest, the host and guide, + Sought where the old man's friendly door + Stood ever open to the poor: + The poor—for seldom came the great, + Or rich, the apers of their state, + That simple, rude abode to see, + Or claim its hospitality. + + III. + + From where the hermit's cottage stood, + Beneath its huge old guardian tree, + The gazer's wand'ring eye might see, + Where, in its maze of field and wood, + And stretching many a league away, + A broad and smiling valley lay:— + Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair, + As if Death had not entered there; + As if its flowers, so bright of bloom, + Its birds, so gay of song and wing, + Would never lose their soft perfume, + Would never, never cease to sing. + Fat flocks were in its glens at rest, + Pure waters wandered o'er its breast, + The sky was clear, the winds were still, + Rich harvests grew on every hill, + The sun in mid-day glory smiled, + And nature slumbered as a child. + + IV. + + And now, their rustic banquet done, + And sheltered from the noontide sun + By the old willow's pleasant shade, + The guest and host the scene surveyed; + Marked how the mountain's mighty base + The valley's course was seen to trace; + Marked how its graceful azure crest + Against the sky's blue arch was pressed, + And how its long and rocky chain + Was parted suddenly in twain, + Where through a chasm, wide and deep, + Potomac's rapid waters sweep, + While rocks that press the mountain's brow, + Nod o'er his waves far, far below;(1) + Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze, + Threw back the sun's meridian rays, + And, flashing as they rolled along, + Seemed all alive with light and song; + Marked how green bower and garden showed + Where rose the husbandman's abode, + And how the village walls were seen + To glimmer with a silvery sheen, + Such as the Spaniard saw, of yore, + Hang over Tenuchtitlan's walls, + When maddened with the lust of gore, + He came to desecrate her halls; + To fire her temples, towers, and thrones, + And turn her songs of peace to groans. + They gazed, till from the hermit's eye + A tear stole slow and silently; + A tear, which Memory's hand had taken + From a deep fountain long congealed; + A tear, which showed how strongly shaken + The heart must be, which thus revealed, + Through time's dim shadows, gathering fast, + Its recollections of the past; + Then, as a sigh escaped his breast, + Thus spake the hermit to his guest. + + V. + + "Thou seest how fair a scene is here; + It seems as if 'twere planned above, + And fashioned from some happier sphere, + To be the home of peace and love. + Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell + In meek contentment's calm repose, + Will turn an Eden to a hell, + And triumph in his brother's woes! + And passion's lewd and lawless host, + Delight to rave and revel most + Where generous Nature stamps and strews + Her fairest forms, and brightest hues: + And Discord here has lit her brand, + And Hatred nursed her savage brood, + And stern Revenge, with crimson hand, + Has written his foul deeds in blood. + But those who loved and suffered then, + Have given place to other men: + Of all who live, to me alone + The story, of their fate is known; + Give heed, and I will tell it thee, + Tho' mournful must the story be. + + VI. + + I mind as if 'twere yesterday, + The hour when first I stood beside + The margin of yon rushing tide, + And watched its wild waves in their play; + These locks that now are thin and gray, + Then clustered thick and dark as thine, + And few had strength of arm like mine. + Thou seest how many a furrow now + Time's hand hath ploughed athwart my brow: + Well, then it was without a line;— + And I had other treasures too, + Of which 'tis useless now to vaunt; + Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true; + A heart, that danger could not daunt; + A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred; + And hope that had not been deferred. + I cannot count how many years + Have since gone by, but toil and tears, + And the lone heart's deep agony, + I feel have sadly altered me;— + Yet mourn I not the change, for those + I loved or scorned, my friends or foes, + Have fallen and faded, one by one, + As time's swift current hurried by, + Till I, of all my kith alone, + Am left to wait, and wish to die. + + VII. + + How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears, + And names his work immortal; years + Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride, + Stern Desolation's brood abide; + The owl within his bower sits, + The lone bat through his chamber flits; + Where bounded by the buoyant throng, + With measured step, and choral song, + The wily serpent winds along; + While the Destroyer stalketh by, + And smiles, as if in mockery. + How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves + His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves, + (Methinks his fittest crown would be + A chaplet from the cypress tree;) + With hope his breast is swelling high, + And brightly beams his laughing eye; + But soon his hopes are mixed with fears, + And soon his smiles are quenched in tears: + Then Disappointment's blighting breath + Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death; + While the Destroyer glideth by, + And smiles, as if in mockery. + How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins + The eager youth to her embrace; + With tameless ardour he begins, + And follows up the bootless race; + Ah! bootless—for, as on he hies, + With equal speed the phantom flies, + Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone, + He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown; + While the Destroyer passeth by, + And smiles, as if in mockery. + Gaze, stranger, on the scene below; + 'Tis scarce a century ago, + Since here abode another race, + The men of tomahawk and bow, + The savage sons of war and chase; + Yet where, ah! where, abide they now? + Go search, and see if thou canst find, + One trace which they have left behind, + A single mound, or mossy grave, + That holds the ashes of the brave; + A single lettered stone to say + That they have lived, and passed away. + Men soon will cease to name their name, + Oblivion soon will quench their fame, + And the wild story of their fate, + Will yet be subject of debate, + 'Twixt antiquarians sage and able, + Who doubt if it be truth or fable. + + VIII. + + I said I minded well the time, + When first beside yon stream I stood; + Then one interminable wood, + In its unbounded breadth sublime, + And in its loneliness profound, + Spread like a leafy sea around. + To one of foreign land and birth, + Nursed 'mid the loveliest scenes of earth, + But now from home and friends exiled, + Such wilderness were doubly wild;— + I thought it so, and scarce could I + My tears repress, when standing by + The river's brink, I thought of mine + Own native stream, the glorious Rhine! + For, near to it, with loving eye, + My mother watched my infancy; + Along its banks my childhood strayed, + With its strong waves my boyhood played. + And I could see, in memory, still + My father's cottage on the hill, + With green vines trailing round and o'er + Wall, roof and casement, porch and door: + Yet soon I learned yon stream to bless, + And love the wooded wilderness. + I could not then have told thee how + The change came o'er my heart, but now + I know full well the charm that wrought, + Into my soul, the spell of thought— + Of tender, pensive thought, which made + Me love the forest's deepest shade, + And listen, with delighted ear, + To the low voice of waters near, + As gliding, gushing, gurgling by, + They utter their sweet minstrelsy. + I scarce need give that <i>charm</i> a name; + Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,— + Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul, + That has not bowed to its control? + + IX. + + See, where yon towering, rocky ledge, + Hangs jutting o'er the river's edge, + There channelled dark, and dull, and deep, + The lazy, lagging waters sleep; + Thence follow, with thine eagle sight, + A double stone's cast to the right, + Mark where a white-walled cottage stands, + Devised and reared by cunning hands, + A stately pile, and fair to see! + The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace, + Have blent for it a goodly grace; + And yet, it much less pleaseth me, + Than did the simple rustic cot, + Which occupied of yore that spot. + For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew + The fairest flower that e'er drank dew; + A lone exotic of the wood, + The fairy of the solitude, + Who dwelt amid its loneliness + To brighten, beautify, and bless. + The summer sky's serenest blue, + Would best portray her eye's soft hue; + From her white brow were backward rolled + Long curls of mingled light and gold; + The flush upon her cheek of snow, + Had shamed the rose's harsher glow; + And haughty love had, haughtier grown, + To own her breast his fairest throne. + The eye that once behold her, ne'er + Could lose her image;—firm and bright, + All-beautiful, and pure, and clear, + 'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight; + Unchangeable, for ever fair, + Above decay, it lingered there! + As it has lingered on mine own, + These many years, till it has grown, + In its mysterious strength, to be + A portion of my soul and me. + + X. + + Not in the peopled solitude + Of cities, does true love belong; + For it is of A thoughtful mood, + And thought abides not with the throng. + Nor is it won by glittering wealth, + By cunning, nor device of art, + Unheralded, by silent stealth, + It wins its way into the heart. + And once the soul has known its dream, + Thenceforth its empire is supreme, + For heart, and brain, and soul, and will, + Are bowed by its subduing thrill. + My love, alas! not born to bless, + Had birth in nature's loneliness; + And held, at first, as a sweet spell, + It grew in strength, till it became + A spirit, which I could not quell,— + A quenchless—a volcanic flame, + Which, without pause, or time of rest, + Must burn for ever in my breast. + Yet how ecstatically sweet, + Was its first soft tumultuous beat! + I little thought that beat could be + The harbinger of misery; + And daily, when the morning beam + Dawned earliest on wood and stream, + When, from each brake and bush were heard, + The hum of bee, and chirp of bird, + From these, earth's matin songs, my ear + Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear— + A voice, whose tones the very air + Seemed trembling with delight to bear; + From leafy wood, and misty stream, + From bush, and brake, and morning beam, + Would turn away my wandering eye, + A dearer object to descry, + Till voice so sweet, and form so bright, + Grew part of hearing and of sight. + + XI. + + Yet my fond love I never told, + But kept it, as the miser keeps, + In his rude hut, his hoarded heaps + Of gleaming gems, and glittering gold: + Gloating in secret o'er the prize, + He fears to show to other eyes; + And so passed many months away, + Till once I heard a comrade say:— + "To-morrow brings her bridal day; + Mazelli leaves the greenwood bower, + Where she has grown its fairest flower, + To bless, with her bright, sunny smile, + A stranger from a distant isle, + Whom love has lured across the sea, + O'er hill and glen, through wood and wild, + Far from his lordly home, to be + Lord of the forest's fairest child." + It was as when a thunder peal + Bursts, crashing from a cloudless sky, + It caused my brain and heart to reel + And throb, with speechless agony: + Yet, when wild Passion's trance was o'er, + And Thought resumed her sway once more, + I breathed a prayer that she might be + Saved from the pangs that tortured me; + That her young heart might never prove + The sting of unrequited love. + My task I then again began, + But ah! how much an altered man,— + A single hour, a few hot tears, + Had done the wasting work of years. + + XII. + + Nor was it I alone, to whom + Those words had been as words of doom, + By some malicious fiend rehearsed: + Another one was standing by, + With princely port, and piercing eye, + Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume; + I thought his heaving heart would burst, + His labouring bosom's heave and swell, + So strongly, quickly, rose and fell! + A long, bright blade hung at his side, + Its keen and glittering edge he tried; + He bore a bow, and this he drew, + To see if still its spring were true; + But other sign could none be caught, + Of what he suffered, felt, or thought. + And then with firm and haughty stride, + He turned away, and left my side; + I watched him, as with rapid tread, + Along the river's marge he sped, + Till the still twilight's gathering gloom + Hid haughty form, and waving plume. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Canto II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + He stood where the mountain moss outspread + Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot; + The chestnut boughs above his head, + Hung motionless and mute. + There came not a voice from the wooded hill, + Nor a sound from the shadowy glen, + Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will,(2) + And the waterfall's dash, and now and then, + The night-bird's mournful cry. + Deep silence hung round him; the misty light + Of the young moon silvered the brow of Night, + Whose quiet spirit had flung her spell + O'er the valley's depth, and the mountain's height, + And breathed on the air, till its gentle swell + Arose on the ear like some loved one's call; + And the wide blue sky spread over all + Its starry canopy. + And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, + Whose grave could not give him rest; + So deep was the settled hue of grief, + On his manly front impressed: + Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain, + And his port was erect and high, + Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain, + As the port of a hero who scorns to fly, + When his men have failed in fight; + Who rather a thousand deaths would die, + Than his fame should suffer blight. + + II. + + And who by kith, and who by name, + Is he, that lone, yet haughty one? + By his high brow, and eye of flame, + I guess him old Ottalli's son. + Ottalli! whose proud name was here + In other times, a sound of fear! + The fleet of foot, and strong of hand, + Chief of his tribe, lord of the land, + The forest child, of mind and soul + Too wild and free to brook control! + In chase was none so swift as he, + In battle none so brave and strong; + To friends, all love and constancy,— + But we to those who wrought him wrong! + His arm would wage avenging strife, + With bow, and spear, and bloody knife, + Till he had taught his foes to feel, + How true his aim, how keen his steel. + Now others hold the sway he held,— + His day and power have passed away; + His goodly forests all are felled, + And songs of mirth rise, clear and gay, + Chaunted by youthful voices, where + His battle-hymn once filled the air— + Where blazed the lurid council fire, + The village church erects its spire; + And where the mystic war-dance rang, + With its confused, discordant clang, + While stern, fierce lips, with many a cry + For blood and vengeance, filled the sky, + Mild Mercy, gentle as the dove, + Proclaims her rule of peace and love. + And of his true and faithful clan, + Of child and matron, maid and man, + Of all he loved, survives but one— + His earliest, and his only son! + That son's sole heritage his fame, + His strength, his likeness, and his name. + + III. + + And thus from varying year to year, + The youthful chief has lingered here; + Chief!—why is he so nobly named? + How many warriors at his call, + By Arcouski's breath inflamed, + Would with him fight, and for him fall? + Of all his father's warrior throng, + Remains not one whose lip could now + Rehearse with him the battle song, + Whose hand could bend the hostile bow. + And yet, no weak, complaining word, + From his stern lip is ever heard; + And his bright eye, so black and clear, + Is never moistened by a tear; + Of quiet mien, and mournful mood, + He lives, a stoic of the wood; + Gliding about from place to place, + With noiseless step, and steady pace, + Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, + Like the lone Genius of the spot. + + IV. + + And this was he who, standing there, + Seemed as an image of Despair, + Which agony's convulsive strife, + Had quickened into breathing life. + The writhing lip, the brow all wet + With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat; + The hand, that with unconscious clasp, + Strained his keen dagger in its grasp; + The eye, that lightened with the blaze + Of frenzied Passion's maniac gaze; + The nervous, shuddering thrill, which came + At intervals along his frame; + The tremulously heaving breast,— + These signs the inward storm confessed: + Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke + Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke + A soul within, whose haughty will + Would wrestle with immortal ill, + And only quit the strife, when fate + Its being should annihilate. + Silent he stood, until the breeze + Bore from his lips some words like these. + + V. + + "The words I speak are no complaint + And if I breathe out my despair, + It is not that my heart grows faint, + Or shrinks from what 'tis doomed to bear. + Though every sorrow which may shake + Or rend man's heart, should pierce my own, + Their strength united, should not make + My lip breathe one complaining tone. + If I must suffer, it shall be + With a firm heart, a soul elate, + A wordless scorn, which silently + Shall mock the stern decrees of fate. + The weak might bend, the timid shrink, + Until misfortune's storm blew by, + But I, a chieftain's son, should drink + Its proffered cup without a sigh. + And it will scarcely, to my lip, + Seem harsher than yon fountain's flow, + For I have held companionship + With Misery, from my youth till now— + Have felt, by turns, each pang, each care, + Her hapless sons are doomed, to bear;— + I caught my mother's parting breath, + When passed she to the spirit land; + And from the fatal field of death, + Where, leading on his fearless band, + With fiery and resistless might, + He fell, though victor in the fight, + Pierced by the arrow of some foe, + I saw my father's spirit go. + And I have seen his warrior men, + From mountain, valley, hill, and glen, + Departing one by one, since then, + As from the dry and withered spray, + The wilted leaves are blown away, + Upon some windy autumn day: + I, only I, am left to be + The last leaf of the blighted tree, + Which the first wind that through the sky + Goes carelessly careering by, + Will, in its wild, unheeded mirth, + Rend from its hold, and dash to earth: + Thus, here alone have I remained, + An outcast, where I should have reigned. + + VI. + + "How shall I to myself alone, + The weakness of my bosom own? + Why, mindful of my fame and pride, + When my brave brethren had died; + Why, with my friendly, ready knife, + Drew I not forth my useless life? + Was it a coward fear of death, + That bade me treasure up my breath? + Or had life yet some genial ray, + That wooed me in its warmth to stay? + Had earth yet one whose smile could stir, + My spirit with deep love for her? + Yes, though within me hope was dead, + And wild Ambition's dreams were fled; + Though o'er my blighted heart, Despair + Desponded, love still nestled there; + Love! how the pale-faced scorner's lip + Would sneer, to hear me name that name; + Yet was it deep within my soul + A secret but consuming flame; + Whose overruling mastership, + Defied slow Reason's dull control! + And felt for one of that vile race, + To whom my tribe had given place; + Was nursed in silence and in shame! + Shame, for the weakness of a heart, + Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow, + Which could bestow its better part + Upon the offspring of a foe! + They, the mean delvers of the soil, + The wielders of the felling axe,— + Because we will not stoop to toil, + Nor to its burdens bond our backs; + Because we scorn Seduction's wiles, + Her lying words and forged smiles, + They, the foul slaves of lust and gold, + Say that our blood and hearts are cold.(3) + But ere the morrow's dawning light + Has climbed yon eastern craggy height, + One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow, + Are lit with pride and pleasure now, + Shall learn, at point of my true steel, + How much the Red man's heart may feel,— + How fearlessly he strikes the foe, + When love and vengeance prompt the blow! + Though scorned by him, I know an art + Could stop the beatings of his heart, + Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still!' + A single arrow from my bow, + Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4) + Would in an instant lay him low; + So deadly is the icy chill, + With which the life-blood it congeals, + The wounded warrior scarcely feels + Its fatal touch ere he expire: + But, when Revenge would glut his ire, + He stops not with immediate death + The current of his victim's breath; + With gasp, and intervening pause, + The lifeblood from its source he draws, + Marks, in the crimson stream that flows, + How near life verges to its close,— + And its last soul-exhaling groan, + To him is music's sweetest tone! + And he, whose fate it is to die, + Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky, + The eye shall see, the arm shall know, + That guides and deals th' avenging blow; + And ere his spirit goes to rest, + Right well his scornful heart shall learn, + How fiercely, in a savage breast, + The flames of love and hate may burn." + He spake, and down the mountain's side, + With quick, impatient step, he hied, + Threading the forest's lonely gloom, + A ruthless minister of doom. + + VII. + + 'Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth, + And the mysterious eyes above, + Gazed down with chastened looks of love, + Not, as when first they hymned her birth, + With ardent songs of holy mirth, + But mournfully serene and clear;— + As on some erring one we gaze, + Whose feet have strayed from wisdom's ways, + But who, in error, still is dear. + Far o'er yon swiftly flowing stream + Fair fell the young moon's silver beam, + And gazing on its restless sheen, + Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien, + Bespoke him of a foreign land, + One born to win, and hold command; + The master mind, the leading one, + Where deeds of manly might were done. + Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came + O'er lip and cheek, o'er eye and brow, + He who beheld, might guess that now + His thoughts were not of wealth and fame: + Whence could that veiling radiance shine, + Save from Affection's holy shrine? + And this was he, who from afar, + Had come to bear away his bride; + And love had been the guiding star, + That lit him o'er the trackless tide; + "To-morrow, on its sunny wing, + My bridal hour soon shall bring; + And those bright orbs which o'er me shed + Such gentle radiance from on high, + Shall shine upon my nuptial bed, + When next they walk along the sky. + O! what are all the pomps of earth, + Of honour, glory, greatness, worth, + Beside the bliss which Love confers + Upon his humblest followers!" + He said, and from the river turned;— + An eye, that with fierce hatred burned, + Met his, and this reply was made: + "Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade + Ere dawns the coming morrow's sun." + Then, ere the point he could evade, + He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast, + While he, who the foul deed had done + Stood calmly by, and saw him sink + In death, beside the water's brink, + Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood + Pour out, and mingle with the flood; + Then drew his dagger from its rest, + And gazing on its fearful hue, + Said, "Thou hast yet one task to do. + He who, death-wounded, welters there, + Came hither, o'er the deep to bear + Far off from her paternal nest, + The white dove I have watched so long. + The falcon's wing was bold and strong, + Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight; + Strike one more blow, and thou to-night + May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare, + And buried deep the dagger there, + And by his victim's lifeless trunk, + Without a sigh or groan he sunk. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Canto III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + With plumes to which the dewdrops cling, + Wide waves the morn her golden wing; + With countless variegated beams + The empurpled orient glows and gleams; + A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds + The mountain's soaring summit shrouds; + Along the wave the blue mist creeps, + The towering forest trees are stirred + By the low wind that o'er them sweeps, + And with the matin song of bird, + The hum of early bee is heard, + Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn, + The coming of the bright-eyed morn; + And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn, + Her couch the fair Mazelli quits, + And gaily, fleetly as a fawn, + Along the wildwood paths she flits, + Hieing from leafy bower to bower, + Culling from each its bud and flower, + Of brightest hue and sweetest breath, + To weave them in her bridal wreath. + Now, pausing in her way, to hear + The lay of some wild warbler near, + Repaying him, in mocking tone, + With music sweeter than his own; + Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending, + Her image in its waves to see, + With its sweet, gurgled music blending, + A song of tenfold melody; + Now, chasing the gay butterfly, + That o'er her pathway passed her by, + With grace as careless, glee as wild, + As though she were some thoughtless child; + Now, seated on some wayside stone, + With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown, + In silent thoughtfulness, she seems + To hold communion with her heart, + Beguiling fancy with the dreams + That from its Pure recesses start. + + II. + + There is a silent power, that o'er + Our bosoms wields a wizard might, + Restoring bygone years to light, + With the same vivid glow they wore, + Ere time had o'er their features cast + The shadowy shroud that veils the past:— + To those who walk in wisdom's way, + 'Tis welcome as an angel's smile; + But those who from her counsels stray, + Whose hearts are full of craft and guile, + To them 'tis as a constant goad— + A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,— + A silent searcher of the breast, + Which will not let the guilty rest. + In childhood's pleasant-season born, + It haunts us in all after time; + From youth's serene and sunny morn + To manhood's stern meridian prime. + From manhood, till the weight of years, + And life's dull constant toil, and tears, + And passion's ever raging storm, + Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form. + True, youth, of hope and love possessed, + By friends—youth has no foes—caressed, + Finds in the present—happy boy!— + Enough of gaiety and joy; + And man, whose visionary brain + Begets that idle phantom train + Of shadows—Power, Wealth, and Fame,— + A scourge—a bubble—and a name— + So often and so vainly sought— + Has little time for peaceful thought; + And so they turn not back to gaze, + Where faithful memory displays + Her record of departed days; + But oh! how loves the eye of age, + To move along its pictured page, + To scan and number, o'er and o'er, + The joys that may return no more; + The hopes that, blighted in their bloom, + By disappointment's chilly gloom, + Were given sadly to the tomb; + The loves so wildly once enjoyed, + By time's unsparing hand destroyed; + The bright imaginative dreams, + Portrayed by restless fancy's beams, + By restless fancy's beams portrayed, + Alas! but to delude and fade! + To count these o'er and o'er again + Is age's sole resort from pain. + Then, stranger, marvel not that I + Have claimed so long thy listening ear; + I could not pass in silence by + Themes to my memory so dear, + As those which make my story's close— + Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes. + + III. + + Ascending from the golden east, + The sun had gained his zenith height, + The guests were gathered to the feast, + Prepared to grace the marriage rite; + The youthful and the old were there, + The rustic swain and bashful fair; + The aged, reverend and gray, + Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay, + Each told, to while the time away, + Some tale of his own wedding day; + The youthful, timorous and shy, + Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye, + That, in its stolen glances, sends + The language Love best, comprehends. + The noontide hour goes by, and yet + The bridegroom tarries—why? and where? + Sure he could not his vows forget, + When she who loves him is so fair! + And then his honour, faith, and pride, + Had bound him to a meaner bride, + If once his promise had been given; + But she, so pure, so far above + The common forms of earthly mould, + So like the incarnate shapes of love, + Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven, + His love for her could ne'er grow cold! + And yet he comes not. Half way now, + From where, at his meridian height, + He pours his fullest, warmest light, + To where, at eve, in his decline, + The day-god sinks into the brine, + When his diurnal task is done, + Descends his ever burning throne, + And still the bridegroom is not, there— + Say, why yet tarries he, and where? + + IV. + + Within an arbour, rudely reared, + But to the maiden's heart endeared + By every tie that binds the heart, + By hope's, and love's, and memory's art,— + For it was here he first poured out + In words, the love she could not doubt,— + Mazelli silent sits apart. + Did ever dreaming devotee, + Whose restless fancy, fond and warm, + Shapes out the bright ideal form + To which he meekly bends the knee, + Conceive of aught so fair as she? + The holiest seraph of the sphere + Most holy, if by chance led here, + Might drink such light from those soft eyes, + That he would hold them far more dear + Than all the treasures of the skies. + Yet o'er her bright and beauteous brow + Shade after shade is passing now, + Like clouds across the pale moon glancing, + As thought on rapid thought advancing, + Thrills through the maiden's trembling breast, + Not doubting, and yet not at rest. + Not doubting! Man may turn away + And scoff at shrines, where yesterday + He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray, + And wealth may lose its charm for him, + And fame's alluring star grow dim, + Devotion, avarice, glory, all + The pageantries of earth may pall; + But love is of a higher birth + Than these, the earth-born things of earth,— + A spark from the eternal flame, + Like it, eternally the same, + It is not subject to the breath + Of chance or change, of life or death. + And so doubt has no power to blight + Its bloom, or quench its deathless light,— + A deathless light, a peerless bloom, + That beams and glows beyond the tomb! + Go tell the trusting devotee, + His worship is idolatry; + Say to the searcher after gold, + The prize he seeks is dull and cold; + Assure the toiler after fame, + That, won, 'tis but a worthless name, + A mocking shade, a phantasy,— + And they, perchance, may list to thee; + But say not to the trusting maid, + Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed,— + As soon thy words may lull the gale, + As gain her credence to the tale! + And still the bridegroom is not there— + Oh! why yet tarries he, and where? + + V. + + It was the holy vesper hour, + The time for rest, and peace, and prayer, + When falls the dew, and folds the flower + Its petals, delicate and fair, + Against the chilly evening air; + And yet the bridegroom was not there. + The guests, who lingered through the day, + Had glided, one by one, away, + And then, with pale and pensive ray, + The moon began to climb the sky, + As from the forest, dim and green, + A small and silent band was seen + Emerging slow and solemnly; + With cautious step, and measured tread, + They moved as those who bear the dead; + And by no lip a word was spoke, + Nor other sound the silence broke, + Save when, low, musical, and clear, + The voice of waters passing near, + Was softly wafted to the ear, + And the cool, fanning twilight breeze, + That lightly shook the forest trees, + And crept from leaf to trembling leaf, + Sighed, like to one oppressed with grief. + Why move they with such cautious care? + What precious burden do they bear? + Hush, questioner! the dead are there;— + The victim of revenge and hate, + Of fierce Ottali's fiery pride, + With that stern minister of fate, + As cold and lifeless by his side. + + VI. + + Still onward, solemnly and slow, + And speaking not a word, they go, + Till pausing in their way before + Mazelli's quiet cottage door, + They gently lay their burden down. + Whence comes that shriek of wild despair + That rises wildly on the air? + Whose is the arm so fondly thrown + Around the cold, unconscious clay, + That cannot its caress repay? + Such wordless wo was in that cry, + Such pain, such hopeless agony, + No soul, excluded from the sky, + Whom unrelenting justice hath + Condemned to bear the second death, + E'er breathed upon the troubled gale + A wilder or a sadder wail;— + It rose, all other sounds above, + The dirge of peace, and hope, and love! + + VII. + + And day on weary day went by, + And like the drooping autumn leaf, + She faded slow and silently, + In her deep, uncomplaining grief; + For, sick of life's vacuity, + She neither sought nor wished relief. + And daily from her cheek, the glow + Departed, and her virgin brow + Was curtained with a mournful gloom,— + A shade prophetic, of the tomb; + And her clear eyes, so blue and bright, + Shot forth a keen, unearthly light, + As if the soul that in them lay, + Were weary of its garb of clay, + And prayed to pass from earth away; + Nor was that prayer vain, for ere + The frozen monarch of the year, + Had blighted, with his icy breath, + A single bud in summer's wreath, + They shrouded her, and made her grave, + And laid her down at Lodolph's side; + And by the wide Potomac's wave, + Repose the bridegroom and the bride. + + 'Tis said, that, oft at summer midnight, there, + When all is hushed and voiceless, and the air, + Sweet, soothing minstrel of the viewless hand, + Swells rippling through the aged trees, that stand + With their broad boughs above the wave depending, + With the low gurgle of the waters blending + The rustle of their foliage, a light boat, + Bearing two shadowy forms, is seen to float + Adown the stream, without or oar or sail, + To break the wave, or catch the driving gale; + Smoothly and steadily its course is steered, + Until the shadow of yon cliff is neared, + And then, as if some barrier, hid below + The river's breast, had caught its gliding prow, + Awhile, uncertain, o'er its watery bed, + It hangs, then vanishes, and in its stead, + A wan, pale light burns dimly o'er the wave + That rolls and ripples by Mazelli's grave. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes To Mazelli + </h2> + <p> + Note 1. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "And how its long and rocky chain + Was parted suddenly in twain, + Where through a chasm, wide and deep, + Potomac's rapid waters sweep, + While rocks that press the mountain's brow + Nod O'er his waves far, far below." +</pre> + <p> + "The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps, one of + the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of + land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot + of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches + the Potomac, seeking a vent also. In the moment of their junction, they + rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the + sea. + </p> + <p> + "The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that + this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; + that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in this place + particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge Mountains, and + have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to + rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the + mountain down from its summit to its base. + </p> + <p> + "The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the + evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most + powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant + finishing which nature has given to this picture, is of a very different + character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as Placid and + delightful as that is wild and tremendous. + </p> + <p> + "For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye, through + the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance + in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult + roaring around, to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm + below."—Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. + </p> + <p> + Note 2. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will." +</pre> + <p> + That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry, the names they + have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will) sufficiently evidence. Some + call it the "Muckawis," others the "Wish-ton-wish," signifying "the voice + of a sigh," and "the plaint for the lost." Those, who in its native glens + at twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy song, will know + how beautifully appropriate these names are. + </p> + <p> + Note 3. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "They, the foul slaves' of lust and gold, + Say that our blood and hearts are cold." +</pre> + <p> + It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous fortitude + often displayed by Indians, under the most intense suffering, is to be + accounted for by their insensibility to pain, resulting, they allege, from + a defective nervous organization. From the absence of a display of + gallantry and tenderness between the sexes, they argue also, in them, the + nonexistence of love, and its kindred passions. This we think unjust, as + it robs them of the honours of a system of education, which is life-long, + and whose sole object is to attain the mastery of all feeling, physical or + mental. The view taken of this subject by Robertson, in his History of + America, to us, seems most accordant with truth. He says: "The amazing + steadiness with which the Americans endure the most exquisite torments, + has induced some authors to suppose that, from the peculiar feebleness of + their frame, their sensibility is not so acute as that of other people; as + women, and persons of a relaxed habit, are observed to be robust men, + whose nerves are more firmly braced. But the constitution of the Americans + is not so different in its texture, from that of the rest of the human + species, as to account for this diversity in their behaviour. It flows + from a principle of honour, instilled early and cultivated with such care, + as to inspire him in his rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which + philosophy hath endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved + and polished. This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider as + the chief distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of a warrior. + The ideas which influence his conduct, and the passions which take + possession of his heart, are few. They operate of course with more + decisive effect, than when the mind is crowded with a multiplicity of + objects, or distracted by the variety of its pursuits; and when every + motive that acts with any force in forming the sentiments of a savage, + prompts him to suffer with dignity, he will bear what might seem + impossible for human patience to sustain. But whenever the fortitude of + the Americans is not roused to exertion by their ideas of honour, their + feelings of pain are the same with those of the rest of mankind." + </p> + <p> + Note 4. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Bathed in the poisonous manchenille." +</pre> + <p> + The slightest wound from an arrow dipped in the juice of the Manchenille, + causes certain and speedy death. "If they only pierce the skin, the blood + fixes and congeals in a moment, and the strongest animal falls motionless + to the ground."—Robertson's America. + </p> + <p> + S. L. Sawtelle. + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir: + </p> + <p> + To you, who have given me friendship in adversity, counsel in perplexity, + and hope in despondency, permit me, as an expression of my deep and + lasting gratitude, to inscribe the "Misanthrope." + </p> + <p> + With sentiments of the highest respect, + </p> + <p> + Your obt. servt., + </p> + <p> + George W. Sands. + </p> + <p> + Frederick City, September 1849. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dramatis Personae. + + Werner—Misanthrope. + Manuel—a cottager. + Albert—his son. + Rebecca—wife to Manuel. + Rose—his daughter. + Spirits. + An aerial chorus. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MISANTHROPE RECLAIMED + </h2> + <h3> + A Dramatic Poem + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A fountain near the summit of a mountain, from which, through a + deep glen, a stream descends to the valley below. A city seen in + the distance. Time, midnight. Werner standing near the fountain. + + Werner (solus). + + Eternal rocks and hills! + Mighty and vast; and you, ye giant oaks, + Whose massy branches have for centuries + Played with the breeze and battled with the storm, + He, who so oft has trod your rugged paths, + And laid him down beneath your shades to rest, + Returns to be your dweller once again. + I sooner far would make your wilds my home, + With nought but your rude eaves to shield me from + The winter's cold or summer's heat, than be + One of the hundred thousand human flies + That swarm within yon filthy city's walls. + Here, I at least may live in solitude, + Free from a forced communion with a race, + Whose presence makes me feel that I am bound, + By nature, to the thing I loathe the most, + Earth's stateliest, proudest, meanest reptile, man! + The beauty of a god adorns his form, + The foulness of a fiend is in his heart; + The viper's, or the scorpion's filthy nest + Nurses a far less deadly, poisonous brood + Than are the hellish lusts, the avarice,— + The pride—the hate—the double-faced deceits— + That make his breast their dwelling. + If he be not beneath hell's wish to damn, + Too lost for even fiends to meddle with, + How must they laugh to hear him, in his pride, + Baptize his vices, virtues; making use + Of holy names to designate his crimes; + Giving his lust the sacred name of love; + Calling his avarice a goodly sin, + Care for his household; naming his deceit + Praiseworthy caution; boasting of his hate, + When he no more can cloak it, as a proof + Of strength of mind and honesty of heart. + For all of goodness that remains on earth, + The name of virtue might be banished from it. + Fathers, who waste in shameful riotings + The bread for which their children cry at home; + Mothers, who put aside th' unconscious babe + That they may wrong its father; children, who + Grow old in crime ere they have spent their youth; + These are its habitants. + I cannot brook the thought, that I belong + To their vile race. My sufferings have been great, + And keen enough to prove my immortality; + For dust could not have borne what I have suffered. + My mind has pierced far, far beyond the length + Of mortal vision, and discovered things + Of which men scarcely dream, and paid in pain, + The price of what it learned and bought with pangs + By which a thousand ages were compressed + Into one hour of agony: a power + Which is a terror to possess, and yet + This one thought only irks me. + Methinks the peaceful earth will scarcely give + My dust a resting-place within its bosom, + But cast it forth as if too vile, to mingle + With clay that ne'er has been the slave of sin. + What! other watchers here at this lone hour? + + [An evil spirit enters, singing. + The world is half hidden, + By midnight's dark shadow; + The filly, witch-ridden, + Skims over the meadow; + The house-dog is barking, + The night-owl is hooting, + The glow-worm is sparkling, + The meteor is shooting; + And forms, which lie + So stiff and still, + In their shrouds so chill, + Through the live-long day, + Now burst their clay, + And flit through the sky, + On their dusky pinions: + Hell's dominions + Keep holiday. + Sisters, sisters, wherever your watches + Are kept, fleet hither to me, + Fleet hither, fleet hither, and leave earth's wretches + Alone to their misery. + + [A chorus of evil spirits answer as they enter from different + parts of the mountain. + We come! + Vice needs no assistance, + She meets no resistance, + Virtue's existence + Is only in name; + Drinking and eating, + Intriguing and cheating, + Carousing, completing + Their ruin and shame; + Old age unrepenting, + Manhood unrelenting, + Youth sighing and winning, + Deceiving and sinning, + Deserting, repining, + All men are the same. + Ho! ho! + Earth quakes with the weight of the anguish she bears, + Her plains and her valleys are deluged with tears, + And her sighs, if united, were deeper by far, + Than the thunderbolt's peal, when the clouds are at war. + There is, not a bosom, that bears not within + Its chambers, the blot and the burden of sin; + Not a mind, but in many an hour bath felt + The curse of its nature, the pangs of its guilt. + + These earth-worms! whose sire would have had us to bow + To his dust-moulded Godship! what—what are they now? + In the scale of true goodness, they sink far below + The poor, patient ox, that they yoke to the plough. + Let them revel awhile, in the false glaring light + Of deception, that blindness but seems to make bright; + Let them gather awhile of time's perishing flowers; + The revenge of eternity! This shall be ours! + Ho! ho! + + [They settle near the fountain. The first Spirit addresses them. + + The night is advancing, + Come, let us, dancing + In dewy circles deftly tread; + And while we dance round, + New schemes shall be found, + To ruin the living, and trouble the dead. + + [They form a circle on the margin of the stream, and dance round + singing. + + I. + + Life is but a fleeting day, + Half of which man dreams away; + Night! we follow in thy train— + Sleep! supreme o'er thee we reign; + Ours the dreams that come when thou + Sit'st upon the unconscious brow; + Reason then deserts her throne, + We then reign, and we alone. + + II. + + Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, + Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, + Love's apple, and when we have found it, + Draw the magic circle round it;(1) + Fearless pluck it, then no charm + That it bears may do us harm; + Place it near the sleeper's head, + It will bring love's visions nigh, + And when the pleasing, dreams are fled, + The waking, pensive maid will sigh, + Till her bosom has possessed, + The form that made her dreams so blest. + And when a maiden finds a lover, + Her happy days are nearly over: + Nature hath unchaste desires, + Love awakes her slumbering fires, + And the bosom that is true in + Love is ever near its ruin; + Passion's pleading melts the frost + Of chilliest hearts, and all is lost: + For, once vice blots a maiden's name, + She soon forgets her maiden shame. + + III. + + Haunt the debauchee with dreams, + Of the victim of his schemes; + Paint her with dishevelled hair, + Streaming eyes, and bosom bare, + And with aspect pale and sad, + As a spectre's from the dead, + Weeping o'er her new-born, child, + Her name reproached, her fame despoiled: + Let her groanings reach his ear, + Pierce his heart, and rouse his fear + Of the retribution given, + To such deeds as his, by Heaven. + + IV. + + Around the drunkard's tattered couch, + Let pale-faced want and misery crouch, + His children shivering o'er the hearth, + Cheered by no sound of social mirth, + Upbraiding, with their timid glances, + The author of their sad mischances; + And she to whom the holy vow + Of the altar bound him, now + With sunken eye, and beauty faded, + Tresses silvered, brow o'ershaded, + Clinging to him fondly still, + With a love that mocks each ill, + Which would vainly strive to tear + Her soul from one who once was dear. + Now haste we, each our task to do, + Ere the starry hours wane through! + + [They fly off, singing as they disappear. + + Ere the Morning's rosy wing, + Has brushed the damp night-shades away, + Ere the birds their matins sing, + Choiring to the new-born day, + Though its bright birth-hour be near, + Many a sigh, and many a tear, + Shall attest the mystic might, + Of those who walk the world by night. + + Werner (solus). + + The ruin of the living! if that be + Your only task, you have a poor employ. + Give man his three score years, and he will make + A wreck, the skill of hell might show forth as + A sample of its handiwork, and then, + Exult at the completeness of its ruin. + The troubling of the dead!—if memory lives + In that far world, to which the spirit hastens, + When she casts off the clay that clogs her wings, + E'en there ye are forestalled, for man will need + No curse, to make his second life a hell, + If be retains the memory of his first. + Had the clear waters of this gurgling brook, + The pow'r to wash time's blots from th' mind's page, + And all earth's mountains were compact of gold, + Her rivers nectar, and her oceans wine, + Her hills all fruitful, and her valleys fresh, + And full of loveliness as Eden was, + Ere sin's sad blight fell on its living bow'rs, + And all were mine, I'd give them but to lay + My weary limbs along this streamlet's bed, + And sleep in full forgetfulness awhile. + But, I forget my task—now let me to it! + + [He takes a vial from his bosom, and flings its contents into the + air, chanting, + + Spirit + Wherever be thy home, + In earth or air, + My message hear, + And fear it. + By the power which I have earned, + To which thy knee has knelt, + By the spell which I have learned, + A spell which thou, hast felt, + I bid thee hither come! + + [A white cloud appears in the distance, floating up the glen, and + a voice is heard, singing as it approaches, + + I. + + I saw from port a vessel steer, + The skies were clear, the winds were fair, + More swiftly than the hunted deer, + Upon her snowy wings of air, + She flew along the silv'ry water, + As fearlessly as if some sprite, + Familiar with the deep, had taught her, + A spell by which to rule the might + Of winds and waves, when met to try + Their strength, up midway in the sky. + + II. + + Along her trackless watery way, + With unabated speed she flew, + Still gay and careless, till the day + Waned past: night came: the heavens grew + Black, dread and threat'ning. Then the storm + Came forth in its devouring wrath; + Before it fled Fear's pallid form; + Destruction followed in its path; + It passed: the morning came: in vain, + I look for that lost bark again. + + III. + + Far down beneath the deep blue waves, + Within some merman's coral hall, + Her fated crew have found their graves; + Above them, for their burial pall, + The mermaids spread their flowing tresses; + The waters chant their requiem; + From many an eyelid, Pity presses + Her tender, dewy tears for them: + The natives of the ocean weep, + To view them sleeping death's pale sleep. + + IV. + + Thou, mortal, wast the bark I saw; + The waters, were the sea of life; + And thou, alas! too well dost know, + What storms were imaged in the strife + Of winds and waves. The hopes of youth, + Thou, in that bark's lost crew, may'st see,— + All buried now within that smooth, + Vast, boundless deep,—eternity:— + And I, a spirit though I be, + Can pity still, and weep for thee. + + [The cloud settles near the fountain, and, unclosing, discovers + a beautiful form looking steadily at Werner. + + WERNER (addressing it). + + How beautiful! + If intercourse between all living worlds, + Had not been barr'd by Him who gave them life, + I should believe thou wert the guardian spirit, + Of that which men have named the Queen of Night. + Like her, thou art majestic, pale and sad, + And of a tender beauty: those bright curls + That press thy brow, and cling about thy neck, + Seem made of sunbeams, caught upon their way + To earth, by some creative hand, and woven + Into a fairy web, of light and life, + Conscious of its high source, and proud to be + A part of aught so beautiful as thou. + I have seen many full, bright mortal eyes, + That were a labyrinth of witching charms, + In which the heart of him who looked was lost; + But none like thine; their light is not of earth; + Their loveliness not like what man calls lovely. + Beside the smoothness of thy brow and cheek, + The lily's lip were rough; each of thy limbs, + Is, in itself, a being and a beauty. + If that the orb thou didst inhabit, ere + Thou wert a portion of eternity, + Was worthy of such dwellers, oh! how fair + And glorious, must have been its fields and bow'rs! + How clear its streams! how pure and fresh its airs! + How mellow were its fruits! how bright its flow'rs! + How strong and brave the beings, fit to share + It with thee! 'Tis most strange that He, whose hand + Fashions such wondrous things, should take delight + In striking them to nothingness again! + Perchance the author of all evil had + Invaded it, and made it quite unfit + To be a part of God's great universe. + And yet thou lookest as if thou wert beyond + The power of temptation to assail. + Hast thou too sinned? + + Spirit. + + I have lived as thou livest, died as thou + Wilt have to die, and am what thou shalt be. + + Werner + + I have not questioned thee of life or death, + Nor of the state which shall succeed them both; + I care not for the first, nor fear the second; + The last I leave to Him who gave to man + Eternity for his inheritance. + But I would know if the unceasing war, + Which good and evil wage upon the earth, + Has reached beyond, its confines. + + Spirit. + + Have I not answered thee? + The Begetter of worlds, stars, suns, and systems! + The Father of Creation! the Bridegroom + Of the Spirit! hath He not written that + Death has dominion only over sin? + And thou would'st know if other worlds have felt + The curse that fell upon, and blighted thine. + Poor simple child of clay! no doubt thou know'st + The story of the Eden of thy sire, + And think'st that there, in its fresh, stainless breast, + The baleful seeds of evil first were sown, + Which since have spread so fearfully abroad,— + When the sad doom, that came on him and his, + Was but the spray, cast from the wave of fate, + Which just then reached thy newly finished orb. + Where it first started—whither tends its course— + Where it shall stop—how many wrecks of worlds— + Once fairer far than thine was at its birth— + Shall strew its desolate way,—is not for things + Brought forth from dust to know. + What wouldst thou of me? + + Werner. + + The sole remaining good, if good it be, + That yet is mine to share. I have tried all + That earthly hope holds out to satisfy + The longings of man's nature. I have loved, + And made an idol of the thing I loved, + And worshipped it with all my soul's intensity; + And, for awhile, the frenzy of my dream + Shut out all other thoughts. But it was short; + Death plucked my lovely flower from my grasp, + And then, the icy chill of desolation + Came, like a snowy avalanche, upon + My heart, and froze the fountains of its feeling. + I was ambitious. I have striven for, + And worn, the gaudiest wreath of fame, and when + I would have placed it on my brow, it grew + A mountain in its weight. I courted much + The notice of the world, and when men praised, + The very breath that bore their praise to me, + Seemed clogged with pestilence. + + Wealth, too, I coveted, + And heaped its shining dust in hoards around me, + And yet it was but dust, as barren of + Enjoyment as the ground we tread upon. + I clad myself in purple—heaped my board + With all the fairest, sweetest fruits of earth, + And filled my golden goblets with bright juice, + Pressed from the goodliest grapes, and made my couch + Of down, and yet, I was most wretched still. + My garments were but cumbersome; my couch + Could give no rest, and e'en my generous wines + Could not remove the crushing weight that sat, + Nightmare-like, on my heart, until it grew + A palpable and keenly aching pang. + There is, one path which yet remains untrod; + To be my guide in it, I called thee hither,— + 'Tis that of knowledge. + + Spirit. + + The same + In which the mother of thy race was lost, + With e'en a wiser, mightier guide than I. + She thirsted, too, for knowledge, and she gave + Her innocence—her home in Paradise— + The happiness of him—who shared her lot— + To know—what? That her own rebellious hand + Had raised the flood-gates of a sea of crime, + Which would for ever pour its bitter waves + Upon the helpless unprotected race, + Which her rash deed had ruined. + Think of the sighs—the groans—the floods of tears— + The woes—too deep for these—which have no end, + Save but in heart-breaks! Think upon the toil— + The sweat—the pain—the strife—the crime—the blood— + The myriads of souls with which this one + Sad lesson was obtained! whose price is yet + Not fully paid, nor shall be so, until + The last poor son of earth mingles with dust! + Dost thou not fear to tread a path like this? + + Werner. + + I have no fear; + It is so long since I have felt its thrill + That 'twere a pleasure now to feel it. + + Spirit. + + What wouldst thou know? + Thou art familiar with all earthly lore. + More: Thou hast gained, and wield'st a power, to which + The rulers of the elements do bow; + The hurricane, at thy command goes forth, + Walking where'er thou bid'st it, and the storm + Ceases to howl when thou hast said,—"Be still!" + Thine anger stirs the ocean, and thy wrath + Finds out the deep foundations of the mountains, + And shakes them with its strength; the subtle fire, + That lights the tempest on its gloomy way, + Starts from its cloud-rocked slumber, at thy call, + To be thy messenger. + Canst thou not be content when thou art feared + By those who rule a world? What is there yet + Which thy insatiate mind desires to know? + Would'st learn immortal mysteries? Reflect + Thou art but mortal. + + Werner. + + Spirit, why dost thou + Taunt me with my mortality? "Weak things, + Brought forth from earth,"—"Poor simple child of clay,"— + These are thy words, when well thou knows't that I, + Though bound to earth by bonds made of its mire, + Am mightier than thou. Were it not so, + Thou would'st not now be face to face with one + Of mortal birth. Thou, too, canst feel revenge, + And knowest how to wreak it; but, take heed,— + The power which brought thee hither, can, and may + Deal harshly with thee. If thou knowest aught + Worthy of an immortal mind to know, + To which I have not pierced, reveal thy knowledge. + + Spirit. + + We may not tell the secrets of eternity; + But I can show thee things thou hast not seen, + And they may profit thee, although 'twill shake + Even thy proud heart to look upon them. + Would'st see them? + + Werner. + + It is my wish. + + Spirit. + + Come then. + + Werner. + + Lead on; + Although thy path be through hell's gloomy gate, + I too will pass its portals at thy back. + Thou canst not enter where I dare not pass. + + [The cloud closes around them, and moves away, and a voice sings + as it disappears. + + To the region of shadow, + The region of death, + Where dust is a stranger, + And life has no breath; + Where darkness and silence + Their dim shrouds have cast + Round the phantoms of worlds + That belong to the past; + Spirits who sit on + The thrones of the air, + Guide ye our chariot, + Waft ye us there. + + [Exeunt. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The verge of Creation. Enter Werner and Spirit. + + Werner. + + We have outtravelled light and sound: + The harmonies that pealed around us, as + Through yon array of dim and distant worlds + We winged our flight, have wholly died away, + Or come to us so faintly echoed, that + Our ears must watch and wait to catch them. + Those stars are now like watch-fires, which though seen + Blazing afar, send not their light to make + The path of the benighted wanderer + More plain and cheerful. + Before us stretches one vast field of gloom, + So dense as to appear impenetrable:— + Darkness, that has a body and a form, + Both palpable to touch and sight, across + Our path a barrier rears that seems to bar + Our farther progress. If there be, beyond + This wall of blackness, aught of mystery, + What power shall guide us to it? + + Spirit. + + Thy mind + Which, from the influence of matter, free + As it is now and shall be till again + Though art returned unto thy native orb, + Is its own master, and its will is now + Its only needed guide. + Strange things are hidden by that ebon veil, + To which a single wish of thine may bear us. + + Werner. + + Then let us on: + Since we our search for knowledge have begun, + Wherever there is aught that Power has made, + Which Time has ruined, or which Fate has damned, + There let us go, that we may look on it, + And learn its history. What intense glooms + We now are passing through! I feel them part + Before, and close behind us, as we fly, + As plainly as the swimmer feels the waves + That lave his gliding limbs. This sure must be + The home of Death—no voice, no sound, no sigh, + Not ev'n so much of breath as would suffice + To make a lily tremble! + + Spirt. + + Though say'st true, + This is indeed the realm of Death,—at least + It has no more of life than what though hast + Brought here with thee,—I speak of mortal life: + We now are near the Hades of past worlds, + Whose spirits have a life which cannot die. + You laugh! and show the haughty arrogance + Which in your mortal brethren you cotemn. + Think you that he who gave to man his mind, + The undying spark that quickens his clay frame, + Would fashion from the same material + Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go + Hymning around his everlasting throne! + Giving to them a beauty which alone + Could be conceived by him, which has great hand + Alone could mould into reality, + And yet deny them what he gave to thee, + Intelligence! a thing that knows not death? + Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves, + Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides, + Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub, + With a fair foliage? hast though not beheld + Her weaving, in the sunny springtide hours, + A fairy web of emerald-bladed grass + To robe her valleys in? With every flow'r + Of graceful form, and soft and downy leaf, + And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns, + To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came, + With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits, + Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow, + And shake her yellow locks from every hill? + Hast though not heard her holy songs of peace + And plenty warbled from each vocal grove, + And murmured by her myriads of streams? + Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds, + Which moan the requiem of the dying year, + Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap about + Her breast a mantle, wherewith to protect + And nurse the seed, the trusting husbandman + Hath given to her keeping? Are thine acts + As full of wisdom, and as free from blame? + If not, then why deny to her the life + And spirit you possess? + + Werner. + + I did not laugh + In disbelief of what thy words declare, + But they stir such strange thoughts within my mind, + That, as I will not weep, I can but smile. + Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,— + A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like that + Which, when the storm has chosen midnight's hour + Of stilly gloom, to hold its revel in, + First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent, + And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us. + The light increases still, and in the distance, + Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes, + Since seemingly immovable, and others + Like mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, moved + By magic o'er a tideless, waveless ocean, + In calm, majestic silence float along! + + Spirit. + Let us go nearer, + Now what seest though? + + Werner. + + Worlds like to that I live on, save that these + Seem made of living shades instead of dust; + Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks, + And fountains, gushing from their very summits; + Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens, + And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,— + With precipices from whose edges soft + And silvery cataracts are leaping down; + Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides, + And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep + In the embrace of the surrounding hills; + The cottage of the hardy hunter, perched + High on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest: + The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold, + And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vines + Bending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;— + Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams, + And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand; + Majestic rivers, with their verdant banks + Studded with towns, and rural villages; + Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave, + And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart! + And mighty cities, standing on their coasts, + With vasty walls and gilded palaces, + And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seem + The guardians of all they overlook. + Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appear + Like watchers of the dead whose names they bear! + All these are there, but not a sign of life, + No living thing that creeps along the ground, + Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen. + It seems as if on all things some strong spell + Had in the twinkling of a star came down + And rocked them to an everlasting sleep! + Spirit! tell me if what I see is more + Than a delusion; if it be, whence came + These shades? + + Spirit. + + And have I not already said + That these things are, that they are quick with life,— + Such life as disembodied spirits have,— + That they are deathless? Thou need'st not inquire + Of me whence they are come, for thou hast seen + One of their number on its journey hither. + The period may not be far remote + When thine own planet, starting from its sphere, + Shall fright the dwellers of the stars that skirt + Its destined pathway to these silent realms! + Thou'st seen the comet rushing through the sky, + And, gazing on the glowing track which it + Had branded on the azure breast of space, + Thinking thy words were wisdom, thou hast said, + "When its full term of years has been fulfilled, + It shall return again." Not knowing that + The light thou sawest was reflected from + That sacred fire, which, in the end, shall purge + The spirit essence which pervades creation, + From the dull dust with which a wayward fate + Has clogged its being! Question me no more— + Remember what I said—I dare not tell + The secrets of Eternity. Look on + And learn whate'er thou canst. + + Werner. + + There is one thing which I at last have learned,— + To feel that with the increase of our knowledge + Our sorrows must increase. I oft have heard, + But never before have felt the truth of this. + To know that were it not for this clay mask, + I even now might pierce the shadowy veil + That wraps in mystery the things I see, + And comprehend their secret principle, + Will make life doubly hard to bear, and tempt + Me much to shake it prematurely off, + And snatch wings for my spirit ere its time. + A total ignorance were better than + The flash which from its slumber wakes the mind, + And then, departing, leaves it to itself, + In the wide maze of error, darkly groping. + Wisdom is not the medicine to heal + A discontented mind. I now know more + Than when I left the earth, but feel that I + Have bought my knowledge with increase of sorrow. + + Spirit. + + Did I not tell thee that its path were steep, + And hard to climb, and thick beset with thorns,— + And that its tempting, longed-for fruit, tho' bought + With a great price, is full of bitterness? + If though art satisfied, let us retrace + Our way to earth again; wert thou to go + Yet farther on, thou might'st regret the more + Our coming hither. + + Werner. + + What! is there aught still more remote than these + From the great centre of the universe,— + The fair domain of life and living things? + + Spirit. + + There is,— + A kingdom tenanted with such dark shapes, + That angels shudder when they look on them! + Thou surely dost not wish to visit it. + + Werner. + + Why not? There is within my mind a void + Whose vacant weight is harder to be borne + Than the keen stingings of more active pangs; + When it has traced the mystic chain of being + To its last link, it may perchance shake off + The misery of restless discontent,— + Its fulness then may sink it into rest. + + Spirit. + + I have no power to disobey thy word; + If thou wilt on, I must proceed with thee, + Even though in looking on I share the pangs + Of those who suffer. + + Werner. + + Come, then, I too must see them, tho' it cost + Me years of pain to gaze but for a moment. + + Spirit. + + 'Twere harder now to find Eve's' buried dust, + Than to declare who has inherited + The largest portion of her prying spirit. + + (Sings.) + + Where Pain keepeth vigil + With Sorrow and Care, + And Horror sits watching + By dull-eyed Despair,— + Where the Spirit accurst + Maketh moan in its wo, + Thy wishes direct us, + And thither we go. + + [Exeunt. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Scene I. Near the place of the damned. Enter Werner and Spirit. + + Werner. + + What piercing, stunning sounds assail my ear! + Wild shrieks and wrathful curses, groans and prayers, + A chaos of all cries! making the space + Through which they penetrate to flutter like + The heart of a trapped hare,—are revelling round us. + Unlike the gloomy realm we just have quitted, + Silent and solemn, all is restless here, + All wears the ashy hue of agony. + Above us bends a black and starless vault, + Which ever echoes back the fearful voices + That rise from the abodes of wo beneath. + Around us grim-browed desolation broods, + While, far below, a sea of pale gray clouds, + Like to an ocean tempest beaten, boils. + Whither shall we direct our journey now? + + Spirit. + + Right down through yon abyss of boiling clouds, + If though hast courage to attempt the plunge, + Our pathless way must be. A moment more + And we shall stand where angels seldom stand, + And devils almost pity when they stand,— + Behold! + + Werner. + + Eternal God! + Whose being, is of love, whose band is pow'r, + Whose breath is life, whose noblest attribute,— + The one most worthy of thyself~-is mercy! + Were these of thine immortal will conceived? + Has thy hand shaped them out the forms they wear? + Has thy breath made them quick with, breathing life? + And is thy mercy to their wailings deaf? + Poor creatures! I bad deemed that in my breast + Grief had congealed the hidden fount of tears, + But ye have drawn them from their frozen source + And I do weep for you! + + Spirit. + + What moves thee thus? + I thought thy heart so steeled in hardihood + Of universal hate, and pride, and scorn, + That even were the woes, which thou dost here + Behold endured by others, heaped on thee, + Thy haughty soul unmoved would feel them all; + Accounting its development of strength + To bear the worst decrees of ruthless fate, + Sufficient recompense! + + Werner. + + Misdeem me not, + If I have wept involuntary tears + O'er pangs beyond my pow'r to mitigate, + Believe me, 'twas in pity, not in fear. + But tell me, Spirit! is all hope extinct + In those who here sojourn, or do they look + Yet forward to some blest millennial day, + Which shall redeem them from this horrid place. + + Spirit. + + Best ask your theologians that question. + Some say that there are places purgatorial, + Where Error pays the price of her transgressions + In sufferings that efface the effects of sin. + And other some declare that when the soul + And clay are parted, heaven seals the doom + Of both, beyond repeal. Let thy own mind + Sit arbiter 'twixt these, and choose the truth. + Mark what approaches us, and mark it well. + + Werner. + + I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yet + It makes the warm blood curdle in my veins. + Than it, hell cannot hold a fouler form— + A thing of more unholy loathsomeness! + Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood, + Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked, + Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam! + A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales, + And through its heaving bosom you may mark + The constant preying of a quenchless flame + That gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moan + Of mingled wrath, and madness, and despair, + Perpetually issues from its lips;— + And with unequal but unceasing steps, + It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom, + A mocking phantom,—fair as it is foul! + With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks, + And big black eyes that dart the humid flame + Which sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips, + And checks as spotless as the falling flake + Ere it has touched the earth, and supple form + Wherein is knit each grace of womanhood + In its perfection! and with wanton looks + That speak the burning language of desire, + It seems to woo its loathsome follower,— + Yet ever from his foul embraces flies. + And on his brow his name is written, "Lust!" + Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight, + And sears my brain with its dark hideousness! + + Spirit. + + 'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears. + + Werner. + + A frame which may be that of Hercules, + It hath such giant members! and its port + Is martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving. + Its sandals are of brass, its massive brow + Is helmeted in steel, and in its hand + It bears a sword with which, in idle strokes, + It vainly beats the unresisting air, + As if in battle with some phantom foe; + And at each blow it deals, a strong fatality + Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast, + Which deep it gashes,—then in mournful tone, + It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,— + "I fought for fame and won unending wo." + His agonies seem like himself, immortal. + + Spirit. + + Justice is blameless of his sufferings: + For many years his busy, plotting brain, + Made discord out of union, strife from peace, + And set the nations warring till the earth + Was crimson with the blood poured out for him! + He bears what he inflicted,—let him pass + And mark what follows him. + + Werner. + + A goodly shape, + More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre, + Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars! + A broken harp, suspended at his side, + A faded garland, wreathed about his brow, + Tell what he was, and still employ his care. + With thin white hand, that trembles at its task, + In vain he strives to bind the broken chords, + And to their primal melody attune them;— + In vain,—for to his efforts still replies + A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound. + And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks, + He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow, + And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,— + "For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth, + Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,— + 'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus." + Is not the justice which confines him here + Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart + Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness. + + Spirit. + + Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man, + Is but a moral seed, which, in due season, + Must bring forth fruit according to its kind. + The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,— + + Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,— + The fruits are garnered in Eternity, + To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food! + If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have been + Of corrupt tendency, or evil nature,— + What marvel if we feed on bitterness?— + What shadow next appears? + + Werner. + + An aged man, + Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneath + The weight of years, or worldly cares that press + Still heavier than the iron hand of time. + His tottering form is fearful to behold! + If the fierce scourge which men on earth call famine, + Could incarnate itself, methinks 'twould choose + Just such a shape, so worn and grim and gaunt, + And wo-begone of aspect. Groping round + He gathers from the burning floor of hell + Some shining pebbles, which his fond conceit + Transmutes to gold, and these with constant care + He watches, counting and recounting them, + Till suddenly a whirlwind, sweeping by, + Bears with it all his fancied hoards away, + Leaving him to renew his bootless task, + Which ever he renews with this complaint,— + "Alas! how speedily may wealth take wing." + And on his front his name is written, "Avarice." + + Spirit. + + There yet is, in this shadowy land of shades, + One form which I would have thee look upon. + Behold it cometh! mark and scan it well. + + Werner. + + Never before in all my wanderings + Through earth, or other regions, where abide + Things now no more of earth, have I beheld + Aught so profoundly mournful or so lone! + So dark a cloud o'erhangs his haggard brow, + That where he turns a dunner, murkier gloom + Prevails along hell's blasting atmosphere! + Surrounded by some goodly forms he moves, + Forms bright as his is dark, who each in turn + Woo his acceptance of the gifts they proffer. + Love stretches out his dimpled band, wherein + He holds his emblematic rose, and Hope, + Bright Hope, that might renew again the pulse + Of life within the frozen veins of Death! + Beckons him to the future,—and calm Faith + Kindles beneath his eye her beacon blaze; + Yet, with such anguish as hell only holds, + He turns him from all these, and will not take + Love's proffered rose, lest 'neath its blushing leaves + Should lurk the stinging thorn of sly deceit. + + Hope's smile to him is disappointment's signal,— + And the bright beacon Faith so kindly lights + To guide us o'er the treacherous sea of life, + To him is but a cheat, a mockery, + An ignis fatuus, kindled to mislead. + And yet he seems as one who in his life + Had nursed bright dreams, and cherished lofty aims,— + Had dreamed of love, or wooed Ambition's smiles, + Or to the sway of empires had aspired, + Or, higher still, the sway of human hearts! + Why gazest thou on me and not on him? + + Spirit. + + To mark if in thine aspect I might not + Detect a consciousness that I thy own soul + Claimed brotherhood with his! Thou too hast scoffed + At human love, and hope, and faith, and truth, + Nursing within thy bosom pride, and scorn, + And rankling hate, I till these at length became + Fiends which thou could'st not master! Thou art warned, + Be wise and heed the warning. Let us now + Return unto thy far off, native orb, + O'er which the rosy smile of morn is breaking, + Waking its teeming millions to renew + Their daily rounds of toil and strife and crime. + + [Exeunt. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Scene I. A peak of the Alps. Werner alone. Time, morning. + + Werner. + + How gloriously beautiful is earth! + In these her quiet, unfrequented haunts, + To which, except the timid chamois' foot, + Or venturous hunter's, or the eagle's wing, + Naught from beneath ascends. As yet the sun + But darts his earliest rays of golden light + Upon the summits of the tallest peaks, + Which robed in clouds and capped with glittering ice, + Soar proudly up, and beam and blaze aloft, + As if they would claim kindred with the stars! + And they may claim such kindred, for there is + Within, around, and over them, the same + Supreme, eternal, all-creating spirit + Which glows and burns in every beaming orb + That circles in immeasurable space! + Far as the eye can trace the mountain's crest + On either hand, a gorgeous, varied mass + Of glowing, cloud-formed ranges are at rest, + Reflecting back in every hue and tint, + + Purple and crimson, orange and bright gold, + The sunny smile with which Morn hails the world. + Beneath me all is quiet yet and calm, + For the dim shadow of the silent night + Still rests upon the valley, still the flock + Sleeps undisturbed within the guarded fold, + The lark yet slumbers in her lowly nest, + The dew hangs heavy upon leaf and blade, + The gray mist still o'erveils the unruffled lake, + And all is tranquil as an infant's sleep; + Tranquil around me, but not so within, + For in my breast a thousand restless thoughts + Conflict in wild, chaotical confusion. + Thoughts of long bygone years, and things that were + But are no more, and thoughts that sternly strive + To grapple with the mysteries I late + Have looked upon; for I, since yesternight, + Have traversed the wide sea of space that rolls + Between the shores of this and other worlds; + Have gazed upon and scanned those worlds, or shades + That wear the lineaments of such; have seen + The damned in their own place, and marked the deep, + Terrific retribution Error brings + To such as are her votaries in life. + And now I feel how baseless was my hope + That Peace, the solitary boon I crave, + Might spring from knowledge. Tis a fatal tree, + Which ever hath borne bitter fruit, since first + 'Twas set in Paradise. But I must seek + The cottage of some honest mountaineer, + Who may afford me nurture and repose, + For I am weary, both in mind and frame. + [Exit. + + Scene II. A chamber in the cottage of Manuel. Albert asleep. + Rebecca standing by his couch. + + Rebecca. + + My boy! my beautiful, my dearest hope! + The garner where my trust of future joy + Is treasured. Heaven bless thee! May thy life, + If it seem good to Him who gave it, be + Blest to the fulness of a mother's prayer! + + [She stoops to kiss him, and continues. + + How well his sleep portrays a quiet mind, + The embodied image of a sunny day, + A day without a cloud, whose only voices + Arise from sighing airs, and whispering leaves, + And tell-tale brooks that of their banks beseech + A gift, a wreath of their sweet flowers, wherewith + To soothe the angry Geni of the deep! + And free, glad birds that flit from bough to bough, + And ring their songs of love in the clear air, + Till heaven is filled with gushing melody, + And the all-glowing horizon becomes + A thing of life, whose breath is sweetest music! + + [Kisses him again, and continues. + + His brow to me is as a spotless page, + Whereon is traced the story of my first + And only love, the bright and holy dream + That stole into my bosom, when beside + The crystal stream that threads a neighbouring vale, + I and his father watched our fathers' flocks, + And he would lay aside his shepherd's pipe, + And in low words, far sweeter than its music, + Talk of the sun and stars and gentle moon, + The earth and all its loveliness, the trees + And shrubs and flowers; how these were all pervaded + And quickened by the spirit of deep love; + Till, by the frequent blush that tinged my cheek, + The light that would break from my downcast eyes, + And the quick beat of my too happy heart, + Emboldened, he poured out his own pure passion, + On my enchanted ear! Since then my life + Has had no eras,—days, and months, and years, + Have all gone by uncounted, in the full, + Deep, fervent, soul-sufficing happiness, + Of all I prayed for, panted for, obtained! + But I must rouse him, it is time his flock + Should leave the fold, and— + + [The boy starts and murmurs in his sleep. + + Down by yonder stream, + Where the green willows cluster thickest, there + They dwell. 'Tis scarce so far as I could cast + A pebble from my sling. Seek it, and they + Will minister to thee what thou mayest need. + + [He awakes, and recognising his mother, exclaims— + + Ah, mother! I have dreamed so strange a dream, + So strange, and yet so palpable, that I + Believed it a reality. Methought + As closely followed by my bleating flock, + I climbed the rugged mountain side where spring + Our greenest pastures, singing as I went, + I met a lonely wanderer in my way, + Of brow so pale, and eye so darkly sad, + That my own heart, to sadness little used, + Grew heavy at the sight; and he seemed worn + And very weary, not so much with toil + As by some hidden, inward strife of soul, + Which even then seemed raging in his breast. + He stayed to question me where he might find + The cottage of some honest mountaineer, + Where he might crave the boons of rest and food,— + And mindful of the lesson taught by thee, + To give the hungry bread, the weary rest, + I pointed him to where our cottage stands, + Assuring him that thou and my sweet sister,— + Fair as aught earthly, and as pure as fair,— + Would entertain him as a welcome guest: + And so we parted. + + Rebecca. + Thou didst well to mind + The lesson I so often have repeated. + It is our first of duties to give aid + To those who beg for succour at our hands; + For we ourselves, whatever we possess, + Are but the stewards of the bounteous Lord + Who giveth to his creatures all good gifts. + But it is time that thou shouldst seek the hills, + So take thy crook and pipe and hie away. + + [Exeunt. + + Scene III. The side of a mountain. Werner descending. + Enter a shepherd boy, followed by his flock, singing. + + I. + + When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep, + Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep, + I start from my slumbers, and hie me away + Where the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,— + I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,— + I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,— + I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peak + That rises high over them, barren and bleak; + And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile, + In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while; + And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy, + That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy! + + II. + + When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high, + Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky, + Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells, + The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,— + I list to its gay tones, as by me they float, + And I echo them merrily back, note for note; + With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing, + I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,— + My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier, + And my sceptre—a mild one—the crook that I bear; + No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy, + I live an unenvying, free shepherdboy! + + Werner (meets and addresses him). + + Thou'rt merry, lad. + + Albert. + + Ay, I have cause to be so. + (Aside.) + It is the wanderer of my last night's dream, + The same pale brow, and darkly mournful eye, + And weary gait, and melancholy voice,— + If he seeks friendly guidance, food, or shelter, + He shall not want them long. + + Werner. + + So thou hast cause + For merriment,—then thou perchance hast wealth, + Broad, fruitful lands, and tenements, and all + Which wealth confers. + + Albert. + + Nay, I have none of these, + And yet have more than all which thou hast named. + I have a father, whose unsullied name + No tongue has ever spoken with reproach, + A mother, whose idea is with me + A holy thing, and a dear sister, who + Is fair as pure, and pure as is the snow + Upon the summit of the tallest peak + Of these my native mountains. I have health, + And strength, and food, and raiment, and employ, + And should I not then have a joyous heart? + + Werner. + + Yea, verily thou shouldst. + + Albert. + + And there is yet, + Among the blessings Heaven has given to me, + One which I have not named to thee; it is + An humble home, whose hospitable door + Was never closed against the wayfarer,— + If thou hast need of aught which it affords, + Seek it, my mother and my sister will + Delight to minister unto thy wants. + There where the wide-armed willows cluster thickest + Upon the green banks of yon crystal stream, + Our cottage stands. The path to it is short + And easily traversed,—so, now, farewell. + + Werner. + + Stay yet a moment. That which thou hast proffered, + Is what I sought. Thou hast a noble heart, + One fit to fill the bosom of a king,— + I fain would give thee guerdon,—here is gold. + + Albert. + + Keep it for those who covet it. If ever + Thou meet'st with one, bowed down by suffering, + Who calls on thee for pity and relief, + Then if thou heed'st his prayer for my sake, + I shall be well repaid. Again, farewell. + + {Exeunt. + + Scene IV. After a lapse of time. A rustic arbour near the + cottage of Manuel. Enter Rose and Werner. + + Rose. + + Nay, let my silent blushes plead with thee + That thou wilt be as silent. + + Werner. + + Rather let + My ardent love, which will not be repressed, + Plead with thee for acceptance of my suit; + For I do love thee with such passionate love, + That life itself, if weighed against that love, + Were scarce a feather in the scale. + + Rose. + + Alas! + I'm but a simple shepherd's simple child, + Unused to courtly speeches, and they say + That in the world thy name and rank are high, + And that when such as thou do proffer love + And faith to lowly maidens, 'tis a jest,— + And that when they have won our honest love, + They cast it from them with unpitying hands, + As idly as they would a withered flower. + + Werner. + + Nay, maiden, let me tell thee of the past, + Let me lay bare my heart beneath thy gaze, + And thou wilt pity if thou canst not love. + I loved in youth with love as fond and deep + As ever made the heart of man its slave, + But, ere my hopes could ripen to fruition, + Death came and made my worshipped one his prize; + And though my peace departed when she died, + Yet I was proud, and would not bond to sorrow, + But with calm brow and eye, and smiling lip, + I mingled with the giddy thoughtless world, + Seeking from out its varied realms to wring + Some recompense for that which I had lost. + Wealth, fame, and power, I sought for and obtained, + Yet found them only gilded mockeries. + The paths of hidden knowledge I essayed, + And trod their mazy windings till they led + My footsteps—whither I may not disclose,— + But all availed me nothing, still my heart + Ached with the dreary void lost love had made, + Ached ever till that void was filled by thee! + Since first fate led me to your kindly door, + Three times the moon with full-orbed light hath shone, + Thrice thirty times, with song of merry birds + And breath of fragrance, Morn has blest the earth + And all its dwellers with her radiant presence; + Thrice thirty times, with star-bound brow, dim Night + Hath kept her tearful watch above the earth; + And every time the full-orb'd moon hath shone, + And every time the merry Morn hath smiled, + And every time dim Night with star-bound brow + Above the earth hath kept her tearful watch, + My heart has added to its store of love, + Its pure, deep, fervent, passionate love for thee! + By all my hopes of heaven, my words are true. + Dost thou not pity now? + + Rose. + + Ay, more! My heart, + And its full treasury of maiden love, + Never before surrendered to another, + I pledge to thee, as thine, for evermore! + + [Exeunt. + + An Aerial Chorus. + + Seek the dell and seek the bower, + Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, + Search for buds of sweetest breath, + Search for flowers of brightest hue; + Fit to weave the bridal wreath, + Of a maid so fair and true. + + She has bowed the haughty heart, + Won the stubborn will from guile, + With no aid of other art + Than the sweet spell of her smile! + + Seek the dell and seek the bower, + Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, + Search for buds of sweetest breath, + Search for flowers of brightest hue; + Fit to weave the bridal wreath, + Of a maid so fair and true! + + [Exeunt. +</pre> + <p> + Note to the Misanthrope + </p> + <p> + "Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, + Love's apple,—and when we have found it, Draw the magic circles + round it." + </p> + <p> + Considering the Mandrake, many fabulous notions were entertained by the + ancients; and they never attempted to extract it from the earth, without + the previous performance of such ceremonies as they considered efficacious + in preventing the numerous accidents, dangers, and diseases, to which they + believed the person exposed who was daring enough to undertake its + extraction. The usual manner of obtaining it was this:—When found, + three times a circle was drawn around it with the point of a naked sword, + and a dog was then attached to it and beaten, until by his struggles it + was disengaged from the earth. + </p> + <p> + It was supposed to be useful in producing dreams, philters, charms &c.; + and also to possess the faculties of exciting love, and increasing + population. + </p> + <p> + The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is drinking + the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence it was called + Love-apple. + </p> + <p> + It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="linkmisc" id="linkmisc"></a> + </p> + <h2> + MISCELLANEOUS POEMS + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <a name="linkisabel" id="linkisabel"></a> + </p> + <h2> + TO ISABEL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Beautiful Little Girl. + + Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower, + Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep; + Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power + Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep + Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower + Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep + O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,— + Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child. + + Thy presence is a spell of holiness, + From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,— + Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless, + As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,— + Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress + Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack + Of misery, and charmed by what she hears, + Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears. + + And when I look upon thee, bearing now + The promise of such loveliness, I ask + If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow, + So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask + Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou + Art learning in thy soul the bitter task + Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow + Of hope is o'er—but this I may not know. + + My path will not be near to thine through life,— + Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee; + Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife, + And all that sorrow has of agony; + My future, as my past was, will be rife + With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;" + Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years, + Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears. + + 'Tis meet that it should be so,—I have made + A wreck of my own happiness, and cast + Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade + That wrinkled age flings over all at last + But let it go,—I have too long delayed + The remedy, and what is past is past;— + And could I live those vanished moments o'er, + My heart would wander as it strayed before. + + I know not how it is,—my heart is stern, + And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness; + Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn, + And in my bosom's innermost recess, + Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn + With a wild strength which nothing can repress! + Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold + And heavy clay—clod mingle with her mould? + + Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom, + Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move, + I trace the lineaments of one to whom + My soul was wedded in an early love,— + 'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb + Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above + Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept + That mine should in its bondage still be kept. + + I mind the hour I stood beside the clay + I had so loved in life—it still was fair, + Surpassing fair, in death; and as she lay + With the thick tresses of her long dark hair + Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray + Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there, + Her more than earthly beauty made her seem + The incarnation of some pure bright dream. + + I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound + About the form from which life's spark was fled, + For ever fled,—wet eyes were weeping round, + And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead; + I could not weep; a sadness more profound + Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed, + Was in my soul,—for then the icy spell + Of desolation freezing o'er me fell. + + And from that hour I have been alone, + Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fate + Be coloured with a brighter hue, and strown + With flowers where mine is thorns;—where mine is hate, + And strife, and bitter discord, may thine own + Be love, and hope, and peace—for these create + The sunshine of existence; may their light + Beam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOCK OF HAIR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is in sooth a lovely tress, + Still curled in many a ring, + As glossy as the plumes that dress + The raven's jetty wing. + And the broad and soul-illumined brow, + Above whose arch it grew, + Was like the stainless mountain snow, + In its purity of hue. + + I mind the time 'twas given to me, + The night, the hour, the spot; + And the eye that pleaded silently, + "Forget the giver not." + Oh! myriads of stars, on high, + Were smiling sweetly fair, + But none was lovely as the eye + That shone beside me there! + + Above our heads an ancient oak + Its strong, wide arms held out, + And from its roots a fountain broke, + With a tiny laughing shout; + And the fairy people of the wild + Were bending to their rest, + As trustingly as sleeps the child + Upon its mother's breast. + + Soft, silvery cloudlets, pure and white, + Along the sky were hung, + As if the spirits of the night + Their mantles there had flung; + And then the night-breeze pensively + Sighed from its unseen throne, + And far o'er field, and flower, and tree, + A hallowed light came down. + + But in our breasts was springing up + A something lovelier far, + Than field, or tree, or flow'ret's cup, + Or sun, or moon, or star! + We heeded not the fountain near, + Its song of gladness singing, + For in our hearts a fount more dear, + And pure, and sweet, was springing. + + And she was one whom fortune's smile + Had gladdened from her birth, + Yet her high spirit knew no guile, + No blot nor stain of earth; + And I was but a friendless boy, + And yet her heart was mine; + I knew it, and the thought was joy, + A joy all, all divine! + + From out a braided mass she took + This single lock of jet, + And gave it with that pleading look + Which, said, "Do not forget." + Forget! as soon the waves that roll + The ocean's caves above, + May tell their secrets, as the soul + Forget its earliest love. + + It has been with me now for years, + Long years of care and strife, + And shall be with me till time wears + Away my web of life. + And when death's keen, resistless dart, + Shall bid its sorrows cease, + This tress shall rest upon my heart, + Its talisman of peace. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'Twas little she thought that I stood breathless by her side + listening to the song she sang as she sat by the sea's edge, + pondering so deeply, upon me too perhaps, that the white foam + glimmered on her brow unheeded." + + Onagh, The Pale Child of the Brehon King. + + She stood beside the wide wild sea, + The winds howled hoarse and high, + And dark clouds, drifting drearily, + Swept o'er the starless sky. + + Her breast was white as mountain snow, + Her locks hung loose and free, + The foam that glimmered on her brow, + Was scarce so pale as she. + + She sang a mournful song of love, + Of trusting love betrayed; + Ah, why did he who won her, prove + So faithless to the maid? + + "Why pines my heart so wearily, + Why heaves my aching breast, + And why is sleep so far from me, + When others are at rest? + + "Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep, + The cause of all my cares; + For thee at night I wake and weep, + When none may mark my tears. + + "I seek the festive hall no more, + Its mirth no more I crave; + My heart is lonely as the shore, + And restless as the wave. + + "My soul has struggled to forget + Its sleepless, fatal flame; + I know thy vows were false, and yet + My love is still the same. + + "Still o'er the dream I nursed too well, + My bursting heart will yearn; + For ever with me must it dwell,— + Oh, wanderer, return!" + + A white sail fluttered in the wind, + A light bark skimmed the sea,— + It came like hope across the mind, + As swift and silently. + + The shell-strewn beach that edged the main, + A manly footstep pressed; + The wanderer had returned again,— + The maiden's heart was blessed! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DESERTED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Come, sit thee by my side once more, + 'Tis long since thus we' met; + And though our dream of love is o'er, + Its sweetness lingers yet. + Its transient day has long been past, + Its flame has ceased to burn,— + But Memory holds its spirit fast, + Safe in her sacred urn. + + "I will not chide thy wanderings, + Nor ask why thou couldst flee + A heart whose deep affection's springs + Poured forth such love for thee! + We may not curb the restless mind, + Nor teach the wayward heart + To love against its will, nor bind + It with the chains of art. + + "I would but tell thee how, in tears + And bitterness, my soul + Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years, + Which it could not control. + And how the thought that clingeth to, + And twineth round the past, + For ever in my heart shall glow, + And be save one my last. + + "They say thou hast another's love,— + Well, cherish it, but thou + Its lack of strength and depth wilt prove, + Should sorrow cloud thy brow. + Though she may own a statelier form, + A fairer cheek than mine, + Her heart cannot so well and warm, + Respond each throb of thine." + + Her words were gentle, but their tone + Was sad as sorrow's sigh,— + A tear-drop trembled in his own + As he sought her downcast eye. + A chord was struck within his breast + That long untouched had lain, + Old memories started from their rest,— + The maid was loved again. + + Stanzas. + + On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul, + Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneath + Its many griefs, and spurning faith's control, + Pants with an earnest longing for the death + Which would for ever close its dark career, + With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier; + When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life, + First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast, + And the heart sickens with the bootless strife + That wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest; + Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress, + Should strike it into utter nothingness. + + Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come, + The mind will wrestle with the mystery + That clouds its being! from its clay-made home, + Its dwelling of a moment, it will flee + Into the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN, + In its vain searchings for th' eternal throne + Of that Omnipotence which gave it birth, + And, giving it a nature which might suit + A seraph, bound its destiny to earth! + And a few years, in which to eat the fruit + Of life's strange tree, so bitter at its core, + Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and—what more? + + Whence came we? whither go we? All is still + And voiceless in the past! A veil is drawn + Across the future! by life's mystic rill + We sit and ponder, watching for the dawn + Of some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought, + By which our nature's secret shall be taught! + Why sorrow is our element—why sin + Is native in us—by what curse we bear + An ever aching, crushing void within + Our secret souls! and why the little share + Of happiness that mingles with our fate, + Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1 + + Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turn + To ashes on our lips! illusive lights + That cast a moment's brightness while they burn, + Then die, and leave a darkness which affrights + Our spirits with its thrice redoubled gloom, + Making the sky a pall—the earth a tomb! + And yet these are the all of life for which + 'Tis worth the wearing of its chain to know, + Wealth, fame, and power are but toys! the rich, + The high and mighty, with the base and low, + Alike before the reaper Death must fall,— + So be it! in the grave is rest for all. + + Stanzas. + + When the leaf is on the tree, + And the bird is in the bower, + And the butterfly and bee, + Bear its treasures from the flower; + When the fields put on the sheen, + That to young-eyed Spring belongs; + When the groves and forests green, + Echo with a thousand songs; + + When wild Beauty wanders forth, + Giving, with no stinted care, + All her loveliness to earth, + All her sweetness to the air: + Then the heart, with gladness stirred, + Mindful of its griefs no more, + Mounts and carols, like a bird + When the pearly shower is o'er! + + But the summer's sunny hours, + As we count them, pass away; + And its fairest fruits and flowers, + Are but food for stern decay. + Then with wailings, deep and loud, + Like the sea's in its unrest, + Winter spreads his icy shroud, + O'er the bare earth's frozen breast. + + Thus the spirit's early gladness, + Sorrow chills or time removes; + And the soul, in tears and sadness, + Mourns its perished joys and loves. + Hope will lose its trusting boldness, + One by one its beams depart, + And Despair, with icy, coldness, + Winds its mantle round the heart. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AFTER WITNESSING A DEATH-SCENE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Press close your lips, + And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here! + Mark ye not how across that eye so clear, + Steals his eclipse? + + A moment more, + And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease, + Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release, + And all be o'er! + + Hush! Seal ye up + Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken + Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken + Grief's bitter cup. + + Ye know the dead + Are they who rest secure from care and strife,— + That they who walk the thorny way of life, + Have tears to shed. + + Ye know her pray'r, + Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,— + Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast, + Could peace dwell there? + + A tale soon told, + Is of her life the story; she had loved, + And he who won her heart to love, had proved + Heartless and cold. + + Lay her to rest, + Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew; + For these should shine and fall where lies so true + And fond a breast! + + A full release + From every pang is given to the dead,— + So on the stone ye place above her head, + Write only "Peace."* + + When Spring comes back, + With music on her lips,—joy in her eye,— + Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,— + Flow'rs in her track— + + Then come ye here, + And musing from the busy world apart, + Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart, + Sweet Pity's tear. +</pre> + <p> + * The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was written in + that one word, "Peace." It seemed like the last sigh of a departing + spirit, over the clay which it was about to abandon for ever. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE AND FANCY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Whenever, amid bow'rs of myrtle, + Love, summer-tressed and vernal-eyed, + At morn or eve is seen to wander, + A dark-haired girl is at his side." + De La Hogue. + + One morn, just as day in the far east was breaking, + Young Love, who all night had been roving about, + A charming siesta was quietly taking, + His strength, by his rambles, completely worn out. + + Round his brow a wreath, woven of every flower + That springs from the hillside, or valley, was bound; + In his hand was a rose he had stol'n from some bower, + While his bow and his quiver lay near on the ground. + + Wild Fancy just came from her kingdom of dreams, + The breath of the opening day to enjoy, + And to catch the warm kiss of its first golden beams + On her cheek, caught a glimpse of the slumbering boy! + + With a light, noiseless step she drew near to the sleeper, + And gazed till her snowy-breast heaved a soft sigh; + Then she bade sleep's dull god bring a sounder and deeper + And heavier trance for Love's beautiful eye. + + Then back to her shadowy kingdom she flow, + And called up the bright mystic forms she has there; + And filling an urn from a fountain of dew, + She bade them all straight to Love's couch-side repair. + + They came, and stood round, as her hand, o'er his pillow, + From a chalice of pearl, poured its magical stream: + While his red rosy lips, that now sighed like a billow + At play with the breeze, told how sweet was his dream. + + He dreamed that he sat on a shining throne, wrought + Of the purest of gold that the earth could supply, + While a trio of beautiful maids, who each brought + A gift for his shrine, in succession past by. + + First Fame, with the step and the glance of a queen, + Came up, and before him bent down her proud knee, + And held up a garland, whereon played the sheen + Of the beams which insure immortality! + + Next Wealth, the stern mistress of men, for whose smile + They toil like the galley slave,—brought in her hand + The fair gems of many an ocean isle, + And the diamonds of many a far off land. + + And Beauty came too, with her blue, laughing eye, + Her fair flowing locks, and her soft rosy cheek, + And red lips, whose sweet smile told silently + The tale which they seemed ashamed to speak. + + 'Neath the shade of a palm branch a fourth one stood by, + With locks like in hue to the tresses of Night, + With a pale, pensive brow, and a dark dreamy eye, + Where the soul of sweet softness lay gleaming in light! + + It was Fancy: Love gazed, and his eager eye shone + With a lustre of feeling, deep, fervent, and sweet; + And he thought it were better to give up his throne + For a place, on his knees, at the coy maiden's feet. + + And from that bright hour, through calm and through storm, + Through the sunlight of summer, and winter's dark reign, + These twain have been bound by ties, tender and warm, + Which ne'er through all time shall be severed again. + + And ever where Love weaves his fond witchery, + Will Fancy the aid of her brightness bestow, + And give the loved object, whatever it be, + A purer, a dearer, a heavenlier glow! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis not in youth, when life is new, when but to live is sweet, + When Pleasure strews her starlike flow'rs beneath our careless feet, + When Hope, that has not been deferred, first waves its golden wings, + And crowds the distant future with a thousand lovely things;— + + When if a transient grief o'ershades the spirit for a while, + The momentary tear that falls is followed by a smile; + Or if a pensive mood, at times, across the bosom steals, + It scarcely sighs, so gentle is the pensiveness it feels + + It is not then the, restless soul will seek for one with whom + To share whatever lot it bears, its gladness or its gloom,— + Some trusting, tried, and gentle heart, some true and faithful breast, + Whereon its pinions it may fold, and claim a place of rest. + + But oh! when comes the icy chill that freezes o'er the heart, + When, one by one, the joys we shared, the hopes we held, depart; + When friends, like autumn's withered leaves, have fallen by our side, + And life, so pleasant once, becomes a desert wild and wide;— + + As for her olive branch the dove swept o'er the sullen wave, + That rolled above the olden world—its death-robe and its grave!— + So will the spirit search the earth for some kind, gentle one, + With it to share her destiny, and make it all her own! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A LADY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church. + + At night, in visions, when my soul drew near + The shadowy confines of the spirit land, + Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear, + Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand; + And forms of light, too, more divinely fair + Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn, + On wings that made sweet music in the air, + Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne, + And, filled with joy unutterable, I + Have deemed myself a born child of the sky. + + And often, too, at sunset's magic hour, + When musing by some solitary stream, + While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r, + And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream: + Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth, + Have whispered words which I may not repeat,— + But Thought or Fancy ne'er have given birth + To form and voice like thine,—so fair and sweet! + Nor have I found them when my spirit's flight + Had borne me to the far shores of delight. + + Above the murmurs of an hundred lips, + They rose, those silvery tones of praise and pray'r, + Soft as the light breeze, when Aurora trips + The earth, and, lighting up the darkened air, + Carols her greetings to the waking flow'rs! + They fell upon my heart like summer rain + Upon the thirsting fields,—and earlier hours, + When I too breathed th' adoring pray'r and strain, + Came back once more; the present was beguiled + Of half its gloom, and my worn spirit smiled. + + Pray, lady, that the sad, soul-searing blight, + Which comes upon us when we tread the ways + Of sin, may not be suffered to alight + On thy pure spirit in its youthful days; + Or like the fruitage of the Dead Sea shore, + Tho' outward bloom and freshness thou may'st be, + Stern bitterness and death will gnaw thy core, + And thou wilt be a heart-scathed thing like me, + Bearing the weight of many years, ere thou + Hast lost youth's rosy cheek and lineless brow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +IMPROMPTU, + On The Reception Of A Letter. + + I would love to have thee near me, + But when I think how drear + Is each hope that used to cheer me, + I cease to wish thee here. + + I know that thou, wouldst not shrink from + The storms that burst on me, + But the bitter chalice I drink from, + I will not pass to thee. + + I would share the world with thee, were it + With all its pleasures mine, + But the sorrows which I inherit, + I never will make thine! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLD MAN AND THE BOY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream." + Campbell. + + Father, I have dreamed a dream, + When the rosy morning hour + Poured its light on field and stream, + Kindling nature with its pow'r;— + + O'er the meadow's dewy breast, + I had chased a butterfly, + Tempted by its gaudy vest, + Still my vain pursuit to ply,— + + Till my limbs were weary grown, + With the distance I had strayed, + Then to rest I laid me down, + Where a beech tree cast its shade, + + Soon a heaviness came o'er me, + And a deep sleep sealed my eyes; + And a vision past before me, + Full of changing phantasies. + + First I stood beside a bower, + Green as summer bow'r could be; + Vine and fruit, and leaf and flower, + Mixed to weave its canopy. + + And within reclined a form, + As embodied moonlight fair, + With a soft cheek, fresh and warm, + Deep blue eye and sunny hair. + + By her side a goblet stood, + Such as bacchanalians brim; + High the rich grape's crimson blood, + Sparkled o'er its gilded rim. + + As I gazed, she bowed her head, + With a gay and graceful move, + And in words of music said, + "Drink, and learn the lore of love!" + + Next I stood beside a mountain, + Of majestic form and height; + Cliff and crag, and glen and fountain, + Mingled to make up its might. + + On its lofty brow were growing + Flowers never chilled by gloom, + For the sky above them glowing, + Dyed them with a deathless bloom. + + And I saw the crystal dome, + Wondrous in its majesty, + Where earth's great ones find a home, + When their spirits are set free. + + By its portals, I espied + One who kept the courts within; + High he waved a wreath and cried, + "Come up hither,—strive and win!" + + Then my vision changed again: + In a fairy-coloured shell, + O'er the wide sea's pathless plain, + I was speeding, fast and well. + + Suddenly, beneath its prow, + Parted were the azure waves, + And I saw where, far below, + Yawn the vast deep's secret caves. + + Where the Syren sings her song, + To old Ocean's sons and daughters; + And the mermaids dance along, + To the music of the waters. + + Where the coral forest o'er, + Storm or tempest ne'er is driven + And the gems that strew its floor, + Sparkle like the stars in heaven. + + Treasures, such as never eye + Of the earth has looked upon, + Gold and pearls of many a dye, + There in rich profusion shone. + + And a voice came to my ear, + Saying, in a stern, cold tone, + Such as chills the heart with fear, + "Seize and make the prize thine own." + + Then across a clouded wild, + Lone and drear and desolate, + Where no cheerful cottage smiled, + I pursued the steps of fate. + + Ever bearing in my breast, + Thoughts almost to madness wrought; + Ever, ever seeking rest, + Never finding what I Sought— + + Till I gave my wanderings o'er, + By a black and icy stream,— + Deep I plunged and knew no more:— + Father, read me now my dream. + + The old man bowed his head, + And pressed his thin hand to his withered brow, + As if he struggled with some rising thought + Which should have kept its place in memory's urn + Till he had cast the shadow from his soul, + Which for a while had bound it in a spell + Born of the bygone years,—then thus he spoke: + + Now listen, boy, and I will show to thee + The import of thy vision,—I will tell + Thee what its scenes and shapes of mystery + Foreshadow of the future,—for full well + I know the wizard lore, whose witchery + Binds e'en the time to come in its wild spell! + And from approaching years a knowledge wrings + Of what they bear upon their viewless wings. + + Along life's weary way of pain and care, + From earliest infancy to eldest age, + Forms, viewless as the soft-breathed summer air, + Attend man's footsteps in his pilgrimage; + And if his destiny be dark or fair, + If Pleasure gilds, or Sorrow blots the page + Whereon is traced his history, still his ear + Will ever catch their warning voices near. + + And they—those guardian ones, who, while thy sleep + Hung o'er thee like a curtain, came around + And fanned thee till thy slumber grew more deep,— + Flung o'er thy rest, so perfect and profound, + A dream whose mem'ry thou shouldst ever keep + Bound to thy spirit, for altho' it wound, + Thy young heart now, perchance, in after years, + 'Twill save thee much of toil, and many tears. + + It was a dream of life: of boyhood's strong + And soul-consuming yearnings after love! + His eager search to find, amid the throng, + Some heart to give him thought for thought—to move + And mingle with his own, as twines the song + From Beauty's lyre and lips! to know and prove + The dearest joy to care-cursed mortals given, + The one with least of earth, and most of heaven + + Of manhood's ceaseless strivings after fame,— + The veriest phantom of all phantasies— + For which he wields the sword, or lights the flame + Whose red glare mocks a nation's agonies,— + Or by his star-outwatching taper, plies + His pen or pencil, to gain—what? a name, + A passing sound—an echo—a mere breath, + Which he, vain fool, dreams mightier than death! + + And of a later period, when the soul + Forsakes its high resolves and wild desires, + When stern Ambition can no more control, + And Love has shrouded o'er its smothered fires; + When Expectation ceases to console, + And Hope, the last kind comforter, expires; + And Avarice, monster of the gilded vest, + Creeps in and occupies the vacant breast. + + And then the last sad scene: The sick heart, sore + And fainting from its wounds—the palsied limb— + The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore— + The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim— + The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more— + The last dregs dripping slowly from the brim + Of life's drained cup,—behind all gloom, before + A deep, dark gulf—we plunge, and all is o'er! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACLE AT THE GRAVE OF NERO. + </h2> + <p> + It is a circumstance connected with the history of Nero, that every spring + and summer, for many years after his death, fresh and beautiful flowers + were nightly scattered upon his grave by some unknown hand. + </p> + <p> + Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, named + Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, whither he had + gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in the Nemean, Isthinian, + and Floral games, celebrated there; and whence he returned conqueror in + the Palaestra, the chariot race, and the song; bearing with him, like + Jason of old, a second Medea, divine in form and feature as the first, and + who like her had left father, friends, and country, to follow a stranger. + </p> + <p> + Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, had not + cut him off from all human affection; and those flowers were doubtless the + tribute of that young girl's holy and enduring love! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whose name is on yon lettered stone? whose ashes rest beneath? + That thus you come with flowers to deck the mournful home of death; + And thou—why darkens so thy brow with grief's untimely gloom? + Thou art fitter for a bride than for a watcher by the tomb! + + "It is the name of one whose deeds made men grow pale with fear, + And Nero's, stranger, is the dust that lies sepulchred here; + That name may be a word of harsh and boding sound to thee, + But oh! it has a more than mortal melody for me! + + "And I,—my heart has grown to age in girlhood's fleeting years, + And has one only task—to bathe its buried love in tears; + The all of life that yet remains to me is but its breath; + Then tell me, is it meet that I should seek the bridal wreath?" + + But maiden, he of whom you speak was of a savage mood, + That took its joy alone in scenes, of carnage, tears and blood; + His dark, wild spirit bore the stain of crime's most loathsome hue, + And love is for the high of soul—the gentle and the true. + + "The voice that taught an abject world to tremble at its words, + To me was mild and musical, and mellow as a bird's— + A bird's—that couched among the green, broad branches of the date, + Tells, in its silvery songs, its gushing gladness to its mate. + + "I saw him first beside the sea; near to ray father's home, + When like an ocean deity he bounded from the foam; + Ev'n then a glory seemed to breathe around him as he trod, + And my haughty soul was bowed, as in the presence of a God. + + I knew not, till my heart was his, the darkness of his own, + Nor dreamed that he who knelt to me was master of a throne! + And when the fearful knowledge came, its coming was in vain,— + I had forsaken all for him, and would do so again." + + Is love the offspring of the will? or is it, like a flower, + So frail that it may fade and be forgotten in an hour? + No, no! it springs unbidden where the heart's deep fountains play, + And cherished by their hallowed dew, it cannot pass away! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE VENETIAN GIRL'S EVENING SONG. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Unmoor the skiff,—unmoor the skiff,— + The night wind's sigh is on the air, + And o'er the highest Alpine cliff, + The pale moon rises, broad and clear. + The murmuring waves are tranquil now, + And on their breast each twinkling star + With which Night gems her dusky brow, + Flings its mild radiance from afar. + + Put off upon the deep blue sea, + And leave the banquet and the ball; + For solitude, when shared with thee, + Is dearer than the carnival. + And in my heart are thoughts of love, + Such thoughts as lips should only breathe, + When the bright stars keep watch above, + And the calm waters sleep beneath! + + The tale I have for thee, perchance, + May to thine eye anew impart + The long-lost gladness of its glance, + And soothe the sorrows of thy heart; + Come, I will sing for thee again, + The songs which once our mothers sung, + Ere tyranny its galling chain + On them, and those they loved, had hung. + + Thou'rt sad; thou say'st that in the halls + Which echoed once our father's tread, + The stranger's idle footstep falls, + With sound that might awake the dead! + The mighty dead! whose dust around + An atmosphere of reverence sheds; + If aught of earthly voice or sound, + Might reach them in their marble beds. + + That she to whom the deep gave birth,— + Fair Venice! to whose queenly stores + The wealth and beauty of the earth + Were wafted from an hundred shores! + Now on her wave-girt site, forlorn, + Sits shrouded in affliction's night,— + The object of the tyrant's scorn, + Sad monument of fallen might. + + Well, tho' in her deserted halls + The fire on Freedom's shrine is dead, + Tho' o'er her darkened, crumbling walls, + Stern Desolation's pall is spread; + Is not the second better part, + To that which rends the despot's chain, + To wear it with a dauntless heart, + To feel yet shrink not from its pain? + + Then let the creeping ivy twine + Its wreaths about each ruined arch, + Till Time shall crush them in the brine, + Beneath its all-triumphant march! + Then let the swelling waters close + Above the sea-child's sinking frame, + And hide for ever from her foes, + Each trace and vestige of her shame. + + Shall we at last less calmly sleep, + When in the narrow death-house pent, + Because the bosom of the deep + Shall be our only monument? + No! by the waste of waters bid, + Our tombs as well shall keep their trust, + As tho' a marble pyramid + Were piled above our mangled dust! +</pre> + <p> + Written in the National Gallery, at the city of Washington, on looking at + a Mummy, supposed to have belonged to a race extinct before the occupation + of the Western Continent by the people in whose possession the Europeans + found it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sole and mysterious relic of a race + That long has ceased to be, whose very name, + Time, ever bearing on with steady pace, + Has swept away from earth, leaving thy frame, + Darkened by thirty centuries, to claim, + Among the records of the things that were, + Its place,—Tradition has forgot thee—Fame, + If ever fame was thine, has ceased to bear + Her record of thee,—say, what dost thou here? + + Three thousand years ago a mother's arms + Were wrapped about that dark and ghastly form, + And all the loveliness of childhood's charms + Glowed on that cheek, with life then flushed and warm; + Say, what preserved thee from the hungry worm + That haunts with gnawing tooth the gloomy bed + Spread for the lifeless? Tell what could disarm + Decay of half its power, and while it fed + On empires—races—make it spare the dead! + + How strange to contemplate the wondrous story, + When those deep sunken eyes first saw the light, + Lost Babylon was in her midday glory,— + Upon her pride and power had fall'n no blight; + And Tyre, the ancient mariner's delight, + Whose merchantmen were princes, and whose name + Was theme of praise to all, has left her site + To utter barren nakedness and shame,— + Yet thou, amid all change, art still the same. + + And she who, by the "yellow Tiber's" side, + Sits wrapped in her dark veil of widowhood, + With scarce a glimmer of her ancient pride, + To cheer the gloom of that deep solitude + Which o'er the seat of vanquished pow'r doth brood, + Since thou wast born has seen her glories rise, + Burn, and expire! quenched by the streams of blood + Which her slaves drew from her own veins, the price + Of usurpation, proud Ambition's sacrifice! + + And darker in her fate, and sadder still, + The sacred city of the minstrel king, + That proudly sat on Zion's holy hill, + The wonder of the world! Destruction's wing + Hath from her swept each fair and goodly thing; + Her palaces and temples! where are they? + Her walls and marble tow'rs lie mouldering, + Her glory to the spoiler's hand a prey,— + And yet time spares a portion of thy clay! + + And thou art here amid a stranger race, + To whom these shores four centuries ago, + Tho' now proud Freedom's boasted dwelling-place, + Were all unknown; the wide streams that now flow + Where Cultivation's hand has steered her plough, + Had then but seen the forest huntsman guide + His light canoe across the waves which now + Reflect the snowy sails that waft in pride + The stately ship along their rippling tide. + + Thou art the silent messenger of ages, + Sent back to tread with Time his constant way, + To shame the wisdom of conceited sages, + Whose lore is but a thing of yesterday; + What would their best, their brightest visions weigh + Beside the fearful truths thou couldst reveal? + The secrets of eternity now lay + Unveiled before thee, and for we or weal, + Thy doom is fixed beyond ev'n heaven's repeal. + + I will not ask thee of the mysteries + That lie beyond Death's shadowy vale; but thou + Mayst tell us of the fate the Destinies + Wove for thine earthly sojourn. Was thy brow + Graced with the poet's, hero's garland? How + Dealt Fortune with thee? Did she curse or bless + Thee with her frown or smile? Speak! thou art now + Among the living,—they around thee press. + Still silent? Then thy lot we can but guess. + + Perhaps thou wast a monarch, and hast worn + The sceptre of some real El Dorado! + Perhaps a warrior, and those arms have borne + The foremost shield, and dealt the deadliest blow + That drew the life-blood of a warring foe! + Perhaps thou wor'st the courtier's gilded thrall,— + Some glittering court's gay, proud papilio! + Perchance a clown, the jester of some hall, + The slave of one man, and the fool of all! + + Oh life! and pride! and honour! come and see + To what a depth your visions tumble down! + Behold your wearer,—who shall say if he + Were monarch, warrior, parasite, or clown! + And ye, who talk of glory and renown, + And call them bright and deathless! and who break + Each dearer tie to grasp fame's gilded crown, + Come, hear instruction from this shadow speak, + And learn how valueless the prize ye seek! + + See where ambition's loftiest flight doth tend, + Behold the doom perhaps of blood-bought fame, + And know that all which earth can give must end, + In dust and ashes, and an empty name! + Ye passions! which defy our pow'r to tame + Or curb your headlong tides, behold your home! + Love! see the breast where thou didst light thy flame! + Immortal spirit! see thy shattered dome! + When shall its hour of renovation come? + + Shall life possess, and beauty deck again + That withered form, and foul and dusky cheek? + Will Death resign his dull and frozen reign, + And the immortal soul return to seek + Her long-deserted dwelling, and to break + The bondage which has held in icy chains + All that was mortal of thee? will she make + Her home in thee, and shall these poor remains + Share with her heaven's pleasures or hell's pains? + + Wonder of wonders! who could look on thee + And afterward survey with curious eye + The mouldering shrines where dupes have bent the knee, + Where superstition, by hypocrisy + Nurtured and fed with tales of mystery, + Has oft with timid footstep trembling trod,— + All these are worse than nothing; come and see + Where once a deathless soul held its abode,— + The wrecked and ruined palace of a God! + + Farewell! Not idly has this hour been spent. + Thy silent teachings I may not forget,— + More deeply, strangely, truly eloquent, + Than all the babbled words which ever yet + Have fall'n from living lips,—they shall be set + With the bright gems which Wisdom loves to keep; + And when my spirit against fate would fret, + My eyes shall turn to thee and cease to weep, + Till I too sleep death's deep and dreamless sleep! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO ISABEL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine + Their breath, for I consume with love's desire,— + Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine, + And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire; + Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine + Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre + Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art + The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart! + + There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings + The scent of aromatic shrub and tree, + And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings, + Thine odorous breath is wafted over me; + How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings, + And my whole being is absorbed in thee; + And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire + That never, never, never shall expire! + + Eternal—is it not eternal—this + Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain? + Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss + Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain + If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is + To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain + Unsighing, so not parted from thy side, + My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride! + + They try to woo me from thy fond embrace, + To lure me from the light of those dear eyes; + They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase, + I have such fleetness as would win the prize;— + But all the pomps of circumstance and place, + A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies! + Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be + The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee. + + To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge + Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day, + To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge, + From every ill that lurks along the way! + To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge + With the bright flowrs that never can decay,— + This were a lot too glorious, too divine, + And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine. + + Now listen, love,—this plan shall rule my life + And thine:—In some remote and sunny dell, + Far from the crowded city's silly strife, + My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell; + Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife, + And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell; + And my sole wished for recompense shall be + My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee. + + Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine, + To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r + Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine; + To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r + Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine, + And bow us, in his worship, every hour; + Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown + As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own. + + Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,— + Come from the world,—the crowd is not for thee; + Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam + Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;— + Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem + That such as they are, thou couldst ever be! + Come, for my soul adores thee with a love + As burning as the seraphs feel above. +</pre> + <p> + These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed at Buena + Vista. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Warrior of the youthful brow, + Eager heart and eagle eye! + Pants thy soul for battle now? + Burns thy glance with victory? + Dost thou dream of conflicts done, + Perils past and trophies won? + And a nation's grateful praise + Given to thine after days? + + Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold + As the clay upon it prest; + And in many a slimy fold, + Winds the grave-worm round thy breast. + Thou wilt join the fight no more,— + Glory's dream with thee is o'er,— + And alike are now to thee + Greatness and obscurity. + + But an ever sunny sky, + O'er thy place of rest is bending; + And above thy grave, and nigh, + Flowers ever bright are blending. + O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, + Balmily the south wind blows,— + With the green turf on thy breast, + Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! + + When the alarum first was sounded, + Marshalling in arms the brave, + Forth thy fearless spirit bounded, + To obtain thee—what? A grave! + Fame had whispered in thine ear, + Words the high-souled love to hear,— + But the ruthless hand of death + From thee snatched the hero's wreath. + + Often will the grief-shade start + O'er thy sister's mood of joy, + Vainly will thy mother's heart + Yearn to greet her absent boy; + Never sister's lip shall press + On thine own its fond caress,— + Never more a mother's eye + Flash in pride when thou art by! + + Where the orange, bending lowly + With its golden fruit, is swaying; + And the Indian maiden, slowly + By her native stream is straying; + O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, + Balmily the South wind blows,— + With the green turf on thy breast, + Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt + A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt + No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows, + When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes. + + And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest + Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;—'twas strange that a breast, + Which nothing like kindness or pity might move, + Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love. + + Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child + Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild + Was the love that he bore her, it won no return, + And the flame that consumed him was answered with scorn. + + Now the lady is gone with her steed to the plain,— + Save the falcon and hound there is none in her train; + She needs none to guide, or to guard her from harm + There's no fear in her heart, there is strength in her arm. + + From her white wrist unhooded her falcon she threw, + Her bow like Diana, the huntress, she drew; + And fleet as the fetterless bird swept the sky, + So on her proud steed swept the fair lady by. + + See how her eye sparkles, and how her cheek glows, + As onward so fearless and proudly she goes, + With her locks streaming back like a banner of gold, + Were she not, say, a bride meet for Nimrod(2) of old? + + And he saw her—the chief, from his tower afar— + As she glanced o'er the earth like some wandering star; + And he swore she should come in that tower to dwell, + Or his soul be a prize to the spirits of hell. + + His war-horse he mounted, and, swift as the shoot + Of the night-gathered meteor, he sped in pursuit,— + Breathing out, as he went, mad with love and with hate, + Bitter curse upon curse against heaven and fate. + + Urging on his fleet courser with spur and with rein, + He swept o'er the earth as the storm sweeps the plain,— + And the fair lady knew, by the gleam of his shield, + It was Bohdo, the scourge of the red battle field! + + Then spurred she her steed over valley and hill, + Over rock, marsh and moor, over river and rill, + Yet still her eye sparkled, and still her cheek glowed, + As onward so fleetly and bravely she rode. + + Thus over Thuringia sped she away, + With the speed of the hawk when he darts on his prey,— + Or an arrow let loose from a warrior's bow, + When it speeds with sure aim to the heart of his foe. + + Then the Hartz, the wild Hartz—the terrific—the proud! + Where the mist-spirit dwells in his palace of cloud! + Where the evil ones gather in envious wrath, + To blight and to blast,—towered up in her path. + + Still her cheek kept its glow, still her eye flashed in pride, + As onward she flew up the steep mountain side; + And fierce as the tempest, and fleet as the wind, + Stern Bohdo, the ruthless, still followed behind. + + To a fearful abyss, whose unhallowed name(3) + By the powers of darkness was given, she came, + And the whirlpool's wild voice, from the dark gulf below, + Came up like the wail of a soul in its we. + + Beyond rose the rocky shelf, barren and bare, + Beneath lay the whirlpool, around her despair, + Behind her came one, sweeping on in the chase, + Whose grasp was more dreaded than death's cold embrace. + + Then she called on the spirits who watch round the brave, + In peril to nerve, to assist and to save, + Closed calmly her eyes, as one sinking in sleep, + And urged her proud steed to the terrible leap! + + A moment it paused on the high precipice, + Then sprang, boldly sprang, o'er the frightful abyss! + And struck its firm hoof in the rock till the sound + Shook the hills, and the sparks flew like lightning around! + + And the foot-print it left has remained to this day, + And no rain-flood or tempest shall wear it away; + She was saved—the brave Emma was saved—but her crown, + From her fair brow unloosed, in the whirlpool sank down. + + On, on came the chief, in his fierceness and wrath, + Nor saw he the wide gulf that yawned in his path,— + And soon, in the depths of its fathomless tide, + The warrior and war-steed were laid side by side. + + And the mountaineer tells how in sullen despair, + His ghost, imannealed of its sins, lingers there; + Ever watching, pale, silent, untiring, unmoved, + The bright golden crown of the maiden he loved. + + A diver once, lured by the wealth of the prize, + Sought out the deep cave where it lay, and still lies, + And where, chained by a spirit-breathed spell, it shall stay, + Till the whirlpool and mountain alike pass away. + + Twice he rose with the crown, till its gleaming points blazed + On the eyes of the wondering thousands who gazed, + Twice it fell from his grasp, and sank quickly again + To the bed where for years undisturbed it had lain. + + He followed,—this effort the treasure may earn— + But vainly they watch who await his return; + A red hue of blood tinged the deep waters o'er, + But the diver came up from their dark depths no more. +</pre> + <p> + 1. Bohdo. This hero, as his character is drawn in the original legend, or + tradition, from which the material of these verses was taken (a tradition + which gives the popular account of the formation of an immense mark or + cavity in a rock, called the "Rosstrappe" or "Horse's footstep,") is + worthy of being enrolled among Odin's Berserker. + </p> + <p> + 2. Nimrod. "A mighty hunter before the Lord." He built Babylon and founded + that royal line which terminated with the death of Sardanapalus; whose + gentleness and aversion to blood spilling, together with his passion for + his "Ionian Myrrha," cost him an empire, and gained him an immortality. + </p> + <p> + 3. "It was named," says the tradition, "The Devil's dancing-place, from + the triumph there of the spirits of hell." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Mazelli, and Other Poems, by George W. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mazelli, and Other Poems + +Author: George W. Sands + +Posting Date: October 23, 2008 [EBook #2008] +Release Date: December, 1999 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAZELLI, AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer + + + + + +MAZELLI, AND OTHER POEMS + +By George W. Sands + + + + +PREFACE + +Under this head, I desire to say a few words upon three subjects, +--my friends, my book, and myself. + +My friends, though not legion in number, have been, in their +efforts in my behalf, disinterested, sincere, and energetic. + +My book: I lay it, as my first offering, at the shrine of my +country's fame. "Would it were worthier." While our soldiers +are first in every field where they meet our enemies, and while +the wisdom of our legislators is justified before all the world, +in the perfection of our beloved institutions, our literature +languishes. This should not be so; for literature, with its +kindred arts, makes the true glory of a nation. We bow in spirit +when Greece is named, not alone because she was the mother of +heroes and lawgivers, but because her hand rocked the cradle of +a literature as enduring as it is beautiful and brilliant, and +cherished in their infancy those arts which eventually repaid her +nursing care in a rich harvest of immortal renown. + +For myself I have little to say. I have not written for fame, and +if my life had been a happy one I should never have written at all. +As it was, I early came to drink of the bitter cup; and sorrow, +whilst it cuts us off from the outer, drives us back upon the inner +world;--and then the unquiet demon of ceaseless thought is roused, +and the brain becomes "a whirling gulf of phantasy and flame," and +we rave and--write! Yes, write! And men read and talk about genius, +and, God help them! Often envy its unhappy possessors the fatal gift +which lies upon heart and brain like molten lead! Of all who have +gained eminence among men as poets, how few are there of whom it may +not be justly said, "They have come up through much tribulation." + +G. W. S. + + + +CONTENTS + + Mazelli, + Canto I., + Canto II., + Canto III., + + The Misanthrope Reclaimed, + Act I., + Act II., + Act III., + Act IV., + + Miscellaneous Poems, + + + + +Dedication. + +Frederick City, September 7th, 1849. + +Dear Sir,-- + +In humble testimony of my gratitude for your services as a friend, +and my admiration and respect for your character and worth as an +author and a man, permit me to dedicate to you the poem of "Mazelli." + +Your obedient servant, + +George W. Sands. + +To Samuel Tyler, Esq., + +Of the Maryland Bar. + + + + +MAZELLI + + + + +Canto I. + + I. + + "Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed, + The sultry hour of noon is near, + Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need, + Stay, then, and, taste its sweetness here. + The mountain path which thou hast sped + Is steep, and difficult to tread, + And many a farther step 'twill cost, + Ere thou wilt find another host; + But if thou scorn'st not humble fare, + Such as the pilgrim loves to share,-- + Not luxury's enfeebling spoil, + But bread secured by patient toil-- + Then lend thine ear to my request, + And be the old man's welcome guest. + Thou seest yon aged willow tree, + In all its summer pomp arrayed, + 'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me, + My cot is built beneath its shade; + And from its roots clear waters burst + To cool thy lip, and quench thy thirst:-- + I love it, and if harm should, come + To it, I think that I should weep; + 'Tis as a guardian of my home, + So faithfully it seems to keep + Its watch above the spot where I + Have lived so long, and mean to die. + Come, pardon me for prating thus, + But age, you know, is garrulous; + And in life's dim decline, we hold + Thrice dear whate'er we loved of old,-- + The stream upon whose banks we played, + The forest through whose shades we strayed, + The spot to which from sober truth + We stole to dream the dreams of youth, + The single star of all Night's zone, + Which we have chosen as our own, + Each has its haunting memory + Of things which never more may be." + + II. + + Thus spake an aged man to one + Who manhood's race had just begun. + His form of manhood's noblest length + Was strung with manhood's stoutest strength, + And burned within his eagle eye + The blaze of tameless energy-- + Not tameless but untamed--for life + Soon breaks the spirit with its strife + And they who in their souls have nursed + The brightest visions, are the first + To learn how Disappointment's blight + Strips life of its illusive light; + How dreams the heart has dearest held + Are ever first to be dispelled; + How hope, and power, and love, and fame, + Are each an idly sounding name, + A phantom, a deceit, a wile, + That woos and dazzles to beguile. + But time had not yet tutored him, + The youth of hardy heart and limb, + Who quickly drew his courser's bit; + For though too haughty to submit, + In strife for mastery with men, + Yet to a prayer, or a caress, + His soul became all gentleness,-- + An infant's hand might lead him then: + So answered he,--"In sooth the way + My steed and I have passed to-day, + Is of such weary, winding length, + As sorely to have tried our strength, + And I will bless the bread and salt + Of him who kindly bids me halt." + Then springing lightly to the ground, + His girth and saddle he unbound, + And turning from the path aside, + The steed and guest, the host and guide, + Sought where the old man's friendly door + Stood ever open to the poor: + The poor--for seldom came the great, + Or rich, the apers of their state, + That simple, rude abode to see, + Or claim its hospitality. + + III. + + From where the hermit's cottage stood, + Beneath its huge old guardian tree, + The gazer's wand'ring eye might see, + Where, in its maze of field and wood, + And stretching many a league away, + A broad and smiling valley lay:-- + Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair, + As if Death had not entered there; + As if its flowers, so bright of bloom, + Its birds, so gay of song and wing, + Would never lose their soft perfume, + Would never, never cease to sing. + Fat flocks were in its glens at rest, + Pure waters wandered o'er its breast, + The sky was clear, the winds were still, + Rich harvests grew on every hill, + The sun in mid-day glory smiled, + And nature slumbered as a child. + + IV. + + And now, their rustic banquet done, + And sheltered from the noontide sun + By the old willow's pleasant shade, + The guest and host the scene surveyed; + Marked how the mountain's mighty base + The valley's course was seen to trace; + Marked how its graceful azure crest + Against the sky's blue arch was pressed, + And how its long and rocky chain + Was parted suddenly in twain, + Where through a chasm, wide and deep, + Potomac's rapid waters sweep, + While rocks that press the mountain's brow, + Nod o'er his waves far, far below;(1) + Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze, + Threw back the sun's meridian rays, + And, flashing as they rolled along, + Seemed all alive with light and song; + Marked how green bower and garden showed + Where rose the husbandman's abode, + And how the village walls were seen + To glimmer with a silvery sheen, + Such as the Spaniard saw, of yore, + Hang over Tenuchtitlan's walls, + When maddened with the lust of gore, + He came to desecrate her halls; + To fire her temples, towers, and thrones, + And turn her songs of peace to groans. + They gazed, till from the hermit's eye + A tear stole slow and silently; + A tear, which Memory's hand had taken + From a deep fountain long congealed; + A tear, which showed how strongly shaken + The heart must be, which thus revealed, + Through time's dim shadows, gathering fast, + Its recollections of the past; + Then, as a sigh escaped his breast, + Thus spake the hermit to his guest. + + V. + + "Thou seest how fair a scene is here; + It seems as if 'twere planned above, + And fashioned from some happier sphere, + To be the home of peace and love. + Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell + In meek contentment's calm repose, + Will turn an Eden to a hell, + And triumph in his brother's woes! + And passion's lewd and lawless host, + Delight to rave and revel most + Where generous Nature stamps and strews + Her fairest forms, and brightest hues: + And Discord here has lit her brand, + And Hatred nursed her savage brood, + And stern Revenge, with crimson hand, + Has written his foul deeds in blood. + But those who loved and suffered then, + Have given place to other men: + Of all who live, to me alone + The story, of their fate is known; + Give heed, and I will tell it thee, + Tho' mournful must the story be. + + VI. + + I mind as if 'twere yesterday, + The hour when first I stood beside + The margin of yon rushing tide, + And watched its wild waves in their play; + These locks that now are thin and gray, + Then clustered thick and dark as thine, + And few had strength of arm like mine. + Thou seest how many a furrow now + Time's hand hath ploughed athwart my brow: + Well, then it was without a line;-- + And I had other treasures too, + Of which 'tis useless now to vaunt; + Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true; + A heart, that danger could not daunt; + A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred; + And hope that had not been deferred. + I cannot count how many years + Have since gone by, but toil and tears, + And the lone heart's deep agony, + I feel have sadly altered me;-- + Yet mourn I not the change, for those + I loved or scorned, my friends or foes, + Have fallen and faded, one by one, + As time's swift current hurried by, + Till I, of all my kith alone, + Am left to wait, and wish to die. + + VII. + + How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears, + And names his work immortal; years + Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride, + Stern Desolation's brood abide; + The owl within his bower sits, + The lone bat through his chamber flits; + Where bounded by the buoyant throng, + With measured step, and choral song, + The wily serpent winds along; + While the Destroyer stalketh by, + And smiles, as if in mockery. + How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves + His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves, + (Methinks his fittest crown would be + A chaplet from the cypress tree;) + With hope his breast is swelling high, + And brightly beams his laughing eye; + But soon his hopes are mixed with fears, + And soon his smiles are quenched in tears: + Then Disappointment's blighting breath + Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death; + While the Destroyer glideth by, + And smiles, as if in mockery. + How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins + The eager youth to her embrace; + With tameless ardour he begins, + And follows up the bootless race; + Ah! bootless--for, as on he hies, + With equal speed the phantom flies, + Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone, + He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown; + While the Destroyer passeth by, + And smiles, as if in mockery. + Gaze, stranger, on the scene below; + 'Tis scarce a century ago, + Since here abode another race, + The men of tomahawk and bow, + The savage sons of war and chase; + Yet where, ah! where, abide they now? + Go search, and see if thou canst find, + One trace which they have left behind, + A single mound, or mossy grave, + That holds the ashes of the brave; + A single lettered stone to say + That they have lived, and passed away. + Men soon will cease to name their name, + Oblivion soon will quench their fame, + And the wild story of their fate, + Will yet be subject of debate, + 'Twixt antiquarians sage and able, + Who doubt if it be truth or fable. + + VIII. + + I said I minded well the time, + When first beside yon stream I stood; + Then one interminable wood, + In its unbounded breadth sublime, + And in its loneliness profound, + Spread like a leafy sea around. + To one of foreign land and birth, + Nursed 'mid the loveliest scenes of earth, + But now from home and friends exiled, + Such wilderness were doubly wild;-- + I thought it so, and scarce could I + My tears repress, when standing by + The river's brink, I thought of mine + Own native stream, the glorious Rhine! + For, near to it, with loving eye, + My mother watched my infancy; + Along its banks my childhood strayed, + With its strong waves my boyhood played. + And I could see, in memory, still + My father's cottage on the hill, + With green vines trailing round and o'er + Wall, roof and casement, porch and door: + Yet soon I learned yon stream to bless, + And love the wooded wilderness. + I could not then have told thee how + The change came o'er my heart, but now + I know full well the charm that wrought, + Into my soul, the spell of thought-- + Of tender, pensive thought, which made + Me love the forest's deepest shade, + And listen, with delighted ear, + To the low voice of waters near, + As gliding, gushing, gurgling by, + They utter their sweet minstrelsy. + I scarce need give that _charm_ a name; + Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,-- + Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul, + That has not bowed to its control? + + IX. + + See, where yon towering, rocky ledge, + Hangs jutting o'er the river's edge, + There channelled dark, and dull, and deep, + The lazy, lagging waters sleep; + Thence follow, with thine eagle sight, + A double stone's cast to the right, + Mark where a white-walled cottage stands, + Devised and reared by cunning hands, + A stately pile, and fair to see! + The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace, + Have blent for it a goodly grace; + And yet, it much less pleaseth me, + Than did the simple rustic cot, + Which occupied of yore that spot. + For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew + The fairest flower that e'er drank dew; + A lone exotic of the wood, + The fairy of the solitude, + Who dwelt amid its loneliness + To brighten, beautify, and bless. + The summer sky's serenest blue, + Would best portray her eye's soft hue; + From her white brow were backward rolled + Long curls of mingled light and gold; + The flush upon her cheek of snow, + Had shamed the rose's harsher glow; + And haughty love had, haughtier grown, + To own her breast his fairest throne. + The eye that once behold her, ne'er + Could lose her image;--firm and bright, + All-beautiful, and pure, and clear, + 'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight; + Unchangeable, for ever fair, + Above decay, it lingered there! + As it has lingered on mine own, + These many years, till it has grown, + In its mysterious strength, to be + A portion of my soul and me. + + X. + + Not in the peopled solitude + Of cities, does true love belong; + For it is of A thoughtful mood, + And thought abides not with the throng. + Nor is it won by glittering wealth, + By cunning, nor device of art, + Unheralded, by silent stealth, + It wins its way into the heart. + And once the soul has known its dream, + Thenceforth its empire is supreme, + For heart, and brain, and soul, and will, + Are bowed by its subduing thrill. + My love, alas! not born to bless, + Had birth in nature's loneliness; + And held, at first, as a sweet spell, + It grew in strength, till it became + A spirit, which I could not quell,-- + A quenchless--a volcanic flame, + Which, without pause, or time of rest, + Must burn for ever in my breast. + Yet how ecstatically sweet, + Was its first soft tumultuous beat! + I little thought that beat could be + The harbinger of misery; + And daily, when the morning beam + Dawned earliest on wood and stream, + When, from each brake and bush were heard, + The hum of bee, and chirp of bird, + From these, earth's matin songs, my ear + Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear-- + A voice, whose tones the very air + Seemed trembling with delight to bear; + From leafy wood, and misty stream, + From bush, and brake, and morning beam, + Would turn away my wandering eye, + A dearer object to descry, + Till voice so sweet, and form so bright, + Grew part of hearing and of sight. + + XI. + + Yet my fond love I never told, + But kept it, as the miser keeps, + In his rude hut, his hoarded heaps + Of gleaming gems, and glittering gold: + Gloating in secret o'er the prize, + He fears to show to other eyes; + And so passed many months away, + Till once I heard a comrade say:-- + "To-morrow brings her bridal day; + Mazelli leaves the greenwood bower, + Where she has grown its fairest flower, + To bless, with her bright, sunny smile, + A stranger from a distant isle, + Whom love has lured across the sea, + O'er hill and glen, through wood and wild, + Far from his lordly home, to be + Lord of the forest's fairest child." + It was as when a thunder peal + Bursts, crashing from a cloudless sky, + It caused my brain and heart to reel + And throb, with speechless agony: + Yet, when wild Passion's trance was o'er, + And Thought resumed her sway once more, + I breathed a prayer that she might be + Saved from the pangs that tortured me; + That her young heart might never prove + The sting of unrequited love. + My task I then again began, + But ah! how much an altered man,-- + A single hour, a few hot tears, + Had done the wasting work of years. + + XII. + + Nor was it I alone, to whom + Those words had been as words of doom, + By some malicious fiend rehearsed: + Another one was standing by, + With princely port, and piercing eye, + Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume; + I thought his heaving heart would burst, + His labouring bosom's heave and swell, + So strongly, quickly, rose and fell! + A long, bright blade hung at his side, + Its keen and glittering edge he tried; + He bore a bow, and this he drew, + To see if still its spring were true; + But other sign could none be caught, + Of what he suffered, felt, or thought. + And then with firm and haughty stride, + He turned away, and left my side; + I watched him, as with rapid tread, + Along the river's marge he sped, + Till the still twilight's gathering gloom + Hid haughty form, and waving plume. + + + + +Canto II. + + I. + + He stood where the mountain moss outspread + Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot; + The chestnut boughs above his head, + Hung motionless and mute. + There came not a voice from the wooded hill, + Nor a sound from the shadowy glen, + Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will,(2) + And the waterfall's dash, and now and then, + The night-bird's mournful cry. + Deep silence hung round him; the misty light + Of the young moon silvered the brow of Night, + Whose quiet spirit had flung her spell + O'er the valley's depth, and the mountain's height, + And breathed on the air, till its gentle swell + Arose on the ear like some loved one's call; + And the wide blue sky spread over all + Its starry canopy. + And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, + Whose grave could not give him rest; + So deep was the settled hue of grief, + On his manly front impressed: + Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain, + And his port was erect and high, + Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain, + As the port of a hero who scorns to fly, + When his men have failed in fight; + Who rather a thousand deaths would die, + Than his fame should suffer blight. + + II. + + And who by kith, and who by name, + Is he, that lone, yet haughty one? + By his high brow, and eye of flame, + I guess him old Ottalli's son. + Ottalli! whose proud name was here + In other times, a sound of fear! + The fleet of foot, and strong of hand, + Chief of his tribe, lord of the land, + The forest child, of mind and soul + Too wild and free to brook control! + In chase was none so swift as he, + In battle none so brave and strong; + To friends, all love and constancy,-- + But we to those who wrought him wrong! + His arm would wage avenging strife, + With bow, and spear, and bloody knife, + Till he had taught his foes to feel, + How true his aim, how keen his steel. + Now others hold the sway he held,-- + His day and power have passed away; + His goodly forests all are felled, + And songs of mirth rise, clear and gay, + Chaunted by youthful voices, where + His battle-hymn once filled the air-- + Where blazed the lurid council fire, + The village church erects its spire; + And where the mystic war-dance rang, + With its confused, discordant clang, + While stern, fierce lips, with many a cry + For blood and vengeance, filled the sky, + Mild Mercy, gentle as the dove, + Proclaims her rule of peace and love. + And of his true and faithful clan, + Of child and matron, maid and man, + Of all he loved, survives but one-- + His earliest, and his only son! + That son's sole heritage his fame, + His strength, his likeness, and his name. + + III. + + And thus from varying year to year, + The youthful chief has lingered here; + Chief!--why is he so nobly named? + How many warriors at his call, + By Arcouski's breath inflamed, + Would with him fight, and for him fall? + Of all his father's warrior throng, + Remains not one whose lip could now + Rehearse with him the battle song, + Whose hand could bend the hostile bow. + And yet, no weak, complaining word, + From his stern lip is ever heard; + And his bright eye, so black and clear, + Is never moistened by a tear; + Of quiet mien, and mournful mood, + He lives, a stoic of the wood; + Gliding about from place to place, + With noiseless step, and steady pace, + Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, + Like the lone Genius of the spot. + + IV. + + And this was he who, standing there, + Seemed as an image of Despair, + Which agony's convulsive strife, + Had quickened into breathing life. + The writhing lip, the brow all wet + With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat; + The hand, that with unconscious clasp, + Strained his keen dagger in its grasp; + The eye, that lightened with the blaze + Of frenzied Passion's maniac gaze; + The nervous, shuddering thrill, which came + At intervals along his frame; + The tremulously heaving breast,-- + These signs the inward storm confessed: + Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke + Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke + A soul within, whose haughty will + Would wrestle with immortal ill, + And only quit the strife, when fate + Its being should annihilate. + Silent he stood, until the breeze + Bore from his lips some words like these. + + V. + + "The words I speak are no complaint + And if I breathe out my despair, + It is not that my heart grows faint, + Or shrinks from what 'tis doomed to bear. + Though every sorrow which may shake + Or rend man's heart, should pierce my own, + Their strength united, should not make + My lip breathe one complaining tone. + If I must suffer, it shall be + With a firm heart, a soul elate, + A wordless scorn, which silently + Shall mock the stern decrees of fate. + The weak might bend, the timid shrink, + Until misfortune's storm blew by, + But I, a chieftain's son, should drink + Its proffered cup without a sigh. + And it will scarcely, to my lip, + Seem harsher than yon fountain's flow, + For I have held companionship + With Misery, from my youth till now-- + Have felt, by turns, each pang, each care, + Her hapless sons are doomed, to bear;-- + I caught my mother's parting breath, + When passed she to the spirit land; + And from the fatal field of death, + Where, leading on his fearless band, + With fiery and resistless might, + He fell, though victor in the fight, + Pierced by the arrow of some foe, + I saw my father's spirit go. + And I have seen his warrior men, + From mountain, valley, hill, and glen, + Departing one by one, since then, + As from the dry and withered spray, + The wilted leaves are blown away, + Upon some windy autumn day: + I, only I, am left to be + The last leaf of the blighted tree, + Which the first wind that through the sky + Goes carelessly careering by, + Will, in its wild, unheeded mirth, + Rend from its hold, and dash to earth: + Thus, here alone have I remained, + An outcast, where I should have reigned. + + VI. + + "How shall I to myself alone, + The weakness of my bosom own? + Why, mindful of my fame and pride, + When my brave brethren had died; + Why, with my friendly, ready knife, + Drew I not forth my useless life? + Was it a coward fear of death, + That bade me treasure up my breath? + Or had life yet some genial ray, + That wooed me in its warmth to stay? + Had earth yet one whose smile could stir, + My spirit with deep love for her? + Yes, though within me hope was dead, + And wild Ambition's dreams were fled; + Though o'er my blighted heart, Despair + Desponded, love still nestled there; + Love! how the pale-faced scorner's lip + Would sneer, to hear me name that name; + Yet was it deep within my soul + A secret but consuming flame; + Whose overruling mastership, + Defied slow Reason's dull control! + And felt for one of that vile race, + To whom my tribe had given place; + Was nursed in silence and in shame! + Shame, for the weakness of a heart, + Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow, + Which could bestow its better part + Upon the offspring of a foe! + They, the mean delvers of the soil, + The wielders of the felling axe,-- + Because we will not stoop to toil, + Nor to its burdens bond our backs; + Because we scorn Seduction's wiles, + Her lying words and forged smiles, + They, the foul slaves of lust and gold, + Say that our blood and hearts are cold.(3) + But ere the morrow's dawning light + Has climbed yon eastern craggy height, + One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow, + Are lit with pride and pleasure now, + Shall learn, at point of my true steel, + How much the Red man's heart may feel,-- + How fearlessly he strikes the foe, + When love and vengeance prompt the blow! + Though scorned by him, I know an art + Could stop the beatings of his heart, + Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still!' + A single arrow from my bow, + Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4) + Would in an instant lay him low; + So deadly is the icy chill, + With which the life-blood it congeals, + The wounded warrior scarcely feels + Its fatal touch ere he expire: + But, when Revenge would glut his ire, + He stops not with immediate death + The current of his victim's breath; + With gasp, and intervening pause, + The lifeblood from its source he draws, + Marks, in the crimson stream that flows, + How near life verges to its close,-- + And its last soul-exhaling groan, + To him is music's sweetest tone! + And he, whose fate it is to die, + Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky, + The eye shall see, the arm shall know, + That guides and deals th' avenging blow; + And ere his spirit goes to rest, + Right well his scornful heart shall learn, + How fiercely, in a savage breast, + The flames of love and hate may burn." + He spake, and down the mountain's side, + With quick, impatient step, he hied, + Threading the forest's lonely gloom, + A ruthless minister of doom. + + VII. + + 'Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth, + And the mysterious eyes above, + Gazed down with chastened looks of love, + Not, as when first they hymned her birth, + With ardent songs of holy mirth, + But mournfully serene and clear;-- + As on some erring one we gaze, + Whose feet have strayed from wisdom's ways, + But who, in error, still is dear. + Far o'er yon swiftly flowing stream + Fair fell the young moon's silver beam, + And gazing on its restless sheen, + Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien, + Bespoke him of a foreign land, + One born to win, and hold command; + The master mind, the leading one, + Where deeds of manly might were done. + Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came + O'er lip and cheek, o'er eye and brow, + He who beheld, might guess that now + His thoughts were not of wealth and fame: + Whence could that veiling radiance shine, + Save from Affection's holy shrine? + And this was he, who from afar, + Had come to bear away his bride; + And love had been the guiding star, + That lit him o'er the trackless tide; + "To-morrow, on its sunny wing, + My bridal hour soon shall bring; + And those bright orbs which o'er me shed + Such gentle radiance from on high, + Shall shine upon my nuptial bed, + When next they walk along the sky. + O! what are all the pomps of earth, + Of honour, glory, greatness, worth, + Beside the bliss which Love confers + Upon his humblest followers!" + He said, and from the river turned;-- + An eye, that with fierce hatred burned, + Met his, and this reply was made: + "Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade + Ere dawns the coming morrow's sun." + Then, ere the point he could evade, + He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast, + While he, who the foul deed had done + Stood calmly by, and saw him sink + In death, beside the water's brink, + Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood + Pour out, and mingle with the flood; + Then drew his dagger from its rest, + And gazing on its fearful hue, + Said, "Thou hast yet one task to do. + He who, death-wounded, welters there, + Came hither, o'er the deep to bear + Far off from her paternal nest, + The white dove I have watched so long. + The falcon's wing was bold and strong, + Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight; + Strike one more blow, and thou to-night + May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare, + And buried deep the dagger there, + And by his victim's lifeless trunk, + Without a sigh or groan he sunk. + + + + +Canto III. + + I. + + With plumes to which the dewdrops cling, + Wide waves the morn her golden wing; + With countless variegated beams + The empurpled orient glows and gleams; + A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds + The mountain's soaring summit shrouds; + Along the wave the blue mist creeps, + The towering forest trees are stirred + By the low wind that o'er them sweeps, + And with the matin song of bird, + The hum of early bee is heard, + Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn, + The coming of the bright-eyed morn; + And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn, + Her couch the fair Mazelli quits, + And gaily, fleetly as a fawn, + Along the wildwood paths she flits, + Hieing from leafy bower to bower, + Culling from each its bud and flower, + Of brightest hue and sweetest breath, + To weave them in her bridal wreath. + Now, pausing in her way, to hear + The lay of some wild warbler near, + Repaying him, in mocking tone, + With music sweeter than his own; + Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending, + Her image in its waves to see, + With its sweet, gurgled music blending, + A song of tenfold melody; + Now, chasing the gay butterfly, + That o'er her pathway passed her by, + With grace as careless, glee as wild, + As though she were some thoughtless child; + Now, seated on some wayside stone, + With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown, + In silent thoughtfulness, she seems + To hold communion with her heart, + Beguiling fancy with the dreams + That from its Pure recesses start. + + II. + + There is a silent power, that o'er + Our bosoms wields a wizard might, + Restoring bygone years to light, + With the same vivid glow they wore, + Ere time had o'er their features cast + The shadowy shroud that veils the past:-- + To those who walk in wisdom's way, + 'Tis welcome as an angel's smile; + But those who from her counsels stray, + Whose hearts are full of craft and guile, + To them 'tis as a constant goad-- + A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,-- + A silent searcher of the breast, + Which will not let the guilty rest. + In childhood's pleasant-season born, + It haunts us in all after time; + From youth's serene and sunny morn + To manhood's stern meridian prime. + From manhood, till the weight of years, + And life's dull constant toil, and tears, + And passion's ever raging storm, + Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form. + True, youth, of hope and love possessed, + By friends--youth has no foes--caressed, + Finds in the present--happy boy!-- + Enough of gaiety and joy; + And man, whose visionary brain + Begets that idle phantom train + Of shadows--Power, Wealth, and Fame,-- + A scourge--a bubble--and a name-- + So often and so vainly sought-- + Has little time for peaceful thought; + And so they turn not back to gaze, + Where faithful memory displays + Her record of departed days; + But oh! how loves the eye of age, + To move along its pictured page, + To scan and number, o'er and o'er, + The joys that may return no more; + The hopes that, blighted in their bloom, + By disappointment's chilly gloom, + Were given sadly to the tomb; + The loves so wildly once enjoyed, + By time's unsparing hand destroyed; + The bright imaginative dreams, + Portrayed by restless fancy's beams, + By restless fancy's beams portrayed, + Alas! but to delude and fade! + To count these o'er and o'er again + Is age's sole resort from pain. + Then, stranger, marvel not that I + Have claimed so long thy listening ear; + I could not pass in silence by + Themes to my memory so dear, + As those which make my story's close-- + Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes. + + III. + + Ascending from the golden east, + The sun had gained his zenith height, + The guests were gathered to the feast, + Prepared to grace the marriage rite; + The youthful and the old were there, + The rustic swain and bashful fair; + The aged, reverend and gray, + Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay, + Each told, to while the time away, + Some tale of his own wedding day; + The youthful, timorous and shy, + Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye, + That, in its stolen glances, sends + The language Love best, comprehends. + The noontide hour goes by, and yet + The bridegroom tarries--why? and where? + Sure he could not his vows forget, + When she who loves him is so fair! + And then his honour, faith, and pride, + Had bound him to a meaner bride, + If once his promise had been given; + But she, so pure, so far above + The common forms of earthly mould, + So like the incarnate shapes of love, + Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven, + His love for her could ne'er grow cold! + And yet he comes not. Half way now, + From where, at his meridian height, + He pours his fullest, warmest light, + To where, at eve, in his decline, + The day-god sinks into the brine, + When his diurnal task is done, + Descends his ever burning throne, + And still the bridegroom is not, there-- + Say, why yet tarries he, and where? + + IV. + + Within an arbour, rudely reared, + But to the maiden's heart endeared + By every tie that binds the heart, + By hope's, and love's, and memory's art,-- + For it was here he first poured out + In words, the love she could not doubt,-- + Mazelli silent sits apart. + Did ever dreaming devotee, + Whose restless fancy, fond and warm, + Shapes out the bright ideal form + To which he meekly bends the knee, + Conceive of aught so fair as she? + The holiest seraph of the sphere + Most holy, if by chance led here, + Might drink such light from those soft eyes, + That he would hold them far more dear + Than all the treasures of the skies. + Yet o'er her bright and beauteous brow + Shade after shade is passing now, + Like clouds across the pale moon glancing, + As thought on rapid thought advancing, + Thrills through the maiden's trembling breast, + Not doubting, and yet not at rest. + Not doubting! Man may turn away + And scoff at shrines, where yesterday + He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray, + And wealth may lose its charm for him, + And fame's alluring star grow dim, + Devotion, avarice, glory, all + The pageantries of earth may pall; + But love is of a higher birth + Than these, the earth-born things of earth,-- + A spark from the eternal flame, + Like it, eternally the same, + It is not subject to the breath + Of chance or change, of life or death. + And so doubt has no power to blight + Its bloom, or quench its deathless light,-- + A deathless light, a peerless bloom, + That beams and glows beyond the tomb! + Go tell the trusting devotee, + His worship is idolatry; + Say to the searcher after gold, + The prize he seeks is dull and cold; + Assure the toiler after fame, + That, won, 'tis but a worthless name, + A mocking shade, a phantasy,-- + And they, perchance, may list to thee; + But say not to the trusting maid, + Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed,-- + As soon thy words may lull the gale, + As gain her credence to the tale! + And still the bridegroom is not there-- + Oh! why yet tarries he, and where? + + V. + + It was the holy vesper hour, + The time for rest, and peace, and prayer, + When falls the dew, and folds the flower + Its petals, delicate and fair, + Against the chilly evening air; + And yet the bridegroom was not there. + The guests, who lingered through the day, + Had glided, one by one, away, + And then, with pale and pensive ray, + The moon began to climb the sky, + As from the forest, dim and green, + A small and silent band was seen + Emerging slow and solemnly; + With cautious step, and measured tread, + They moved as those who bear the dead; + And by no lip a word was spoke, + Nor other sound the silence broke, + Save when, low, musical, and clear, + The voice of waters passing near, + Was softly wafted to the ear, + And the cool, fanning twilight breeze, + That lightly shook the forest trees, + And crept from leaf to trembling leaf, + Sighed, like to one oppressed with grief. + Why move they with such cautious care? + What precious burden do they bear? + Hush, questioner! the dead are there;-- + The victim of revenge and hate, + Of fierce Ottali's fiery pride, + With that stern minister of fate, + As cold and lifeless by his side. + + VI. + + Still onward, solemnly and slow, + And speaking not a word, they go, + Till pausing in their way before + Mazelli's quiet cottage door, + They gently lay their burden down. + Whence comes that shriek of wild despair + That rises wildly on the air? + Whose is the arm so fondly thrown + Around the cold, unconscious clay, + That cannot its caress repay? + Such wordless wo was in that cry, + Such pain, such hopeless agony, + No soul, excluded from the sky, + Whom unrelenting justice hath + Condemned to bear the second death, + E'er breathed upon the troubled gale + A wilder or a sadder wail;-- + It rose, all other sounds above, + The dirge of peace, and hope, and love! + + VII. + + And day on weary day went by, + And like the drooping autumn leaf, + She faded slow and silently, + In her deep, uncomplaining grief; + For, sick of life's vacuity, + She neither sought nor wished relief. + And daily from her cheek, the glow + Departed, and her virgin brow + Was curtained with a mournful gloom,-- + A shade prophetic, of the tomb; + And her clear eyes, so blue and bright, + Shot forth a keen, unearthly light, + As if the soul that in them lay, + Were weary of its garb of clay, + And prayed to pass from earth away; + Nor was that prayer vain, for ere + The frozen monarch of the year, + Had blighted, with his icy breath, + A single bud in summer's wreath, + They shrouded her, and made her grave, + And laid her down at Lodolph's side; + And by the wide Potomac's wave, + Repose the bridegroom and the bride. + + 'Tis said, that, oft at summer midnight, there, + When all is hushed and voiceless, and the air, + Sweet, soothing minstrel of the viewless hand, + Swells rippling through the aged trees, that stand + With their broad boughs above the wave depending, + With the low gurgle of the waters blending + The rustle of their foliage, a light boat, + Bearing two shadowy forms, is seen to float + Adown the stream, without or oar or sail, + To break the wave, or catch the driving gale; + Smoothly and steadily its course is steered, + Until the shadow of yon cliff is neared, + And then, as if some barrier, hid below + The river's breast, had caught its gliding prow, + Awhile, uncertain, o'er its watery bed, + It hangs, then vanishes, and in its stead, + A wan, pale light burns dimly o'er the wave + That rolls and ripples by Mazelli's grave. + + + + +Notes To Mazelli + + +Note 1. + + "And how its long and rocky chain + Was parted suddenly in twain, + Where through a chasm, wide and deep, + Potomac's rapid waters sweep, + While rocks that press the mountain's brow + Nod O'er his waves far, far below." + +"The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps, one of +the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of +land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the +foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left +approaches the Potomac, seeking a vent also. In the moment of their +junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and +pass off to the sea. + +"The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that +this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed +first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in this place +particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge Mountains, and +have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to +rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the +mountain down from its summit to its base. + +"The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the +evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the +most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the +distant finishing which nature has given to this picture, is of a very +different character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as +Placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous. + +"For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye, +through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an +infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from +the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach, and +participate of the calm below."--Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. + + +Note 2. + + "Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will." + +That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry, the names +they have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will) sufficiently evidence. +Some call it the "Muckawis," others the "Wish-ton-wish," signifying "the +voice of a sigh," and "the plaint for the lost." Those, who in its +native glens at twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy +song, will know how beautifully appropriate these names are. + + +Note 3. + + "They, the foul slaves' of lust and gold, + Say that our blood and hearts are cold." + +It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous +fortitude often displayed by Indians, under the most intense suffering, +is to be accounted for by their insensibility to pain, resulting, they +allege, from a defective nervous organization. From the absence of a +display of gallantry and tenderness between the sexes, they argue also, +in them, the nonexistence of love, and its kindred passions. This we +think unjust, as it robs them of the honours of a system of education, +which is life-long, and whose sole object is to attain the mastery of +all feeling, physical or mental. The view taken of this subject by +Robertson, in his History of America, to us, seems most accordant with +truth. He says: "The amazing steadiness with which the Americans endure +the most exquisite torments, has induced some authors to suppose that, +from the peculiar feebleness of their frame, their sensibility is not so +acute as that of other people; as women, and persons of a relaxed habit, +are observed to be robust men, whose nerves are more firmly braced. But +the constitution of the Americans is not so different in its texture, +from that of the rest of the human species, as to account for this +diversity in their behaviour. It flows from a principle of honour, +instilled early and cultivated with such care, as to inspire him in his +rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which philosophy hath +endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved and polished. +This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider as the chief +distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of a warrior. The ideas +which influence his conduct, and the passions which take possession of +his heart, are few. They operate of course with more decisive effect, +than when the mind is crowded with a multiplicity of objects, or +distracted by the variety of its pursuits; and when every motive that +acts with any force in forming the sentiments of a savage, prompts him +to suffer with dignity, he will bear what might seem impossible for +human patience to sustain. But whenever the fortitude of the Americans +is not roused to exertion by their ideas of honour, their feelings of +pain are the same with those of the rest of mankind." + + +Note 4. + + "Bathed in the poisonous manchenille." + +The slightest wound from an arrow dipped in the juice of the +Manchenille, causes certain and speedy death. "If they only pierce the +skin, the blood fixes and congeals in a moment, and the strongest animal +falls motionless to the ground."--Robertson's America. + + + +S. L. Sawtelle. + +Dear Sir: + +To you, who have given me friendship in adversity, counsel in +perplexity, and hope in despondency, permit me, as an expression of my +deep and lasting gratitude, to inscribe the "Misanthrope." + +With sentiments of the highest respect, + +Your obt. servt., + +George W. Sands. + +Frederick City, September 1849. + + + Dramatis Personae. + + Werner--Misanthrope. + Manuel--a cottager. + Albert--his son. + Rebecca--wife to Manuel. + Rose--his daughter. + Spirits. + An aerial chorus. + + + + +THE MISANTHROPE RECLAIMED + +A Dramatic Poem + + + + +ACT I. + + A fountain near the summit of a mountain, from which, through a + deep glen, a stream descends to the valley below. A city seen in + the distance. Time, midnight. Werner standing near the fountain. + + Werner (solus). + + Eternal rocks and hills! + Mighty and vast; and you, ye giant oaks, + Whose massy branches have for centuries + Played with the breeze and battled with the storm, + He, who so oft has trod your rugged paths, + And laid him down beneath your shades to rest, + Returns to be your dweller once again. + I sooner far would make your wilds my home, + With nought but your rude eaves to shield me from + The winter's cold or summer's heat, than be + One of the hundred thousand human flies + That swarm within yon filthy city's walls. + Here, I at least may live in solitude, + Free from a forced communion with a race, + Whose presence makes me feel that I am bound, + By nature, to the thing I loathe the most, + Earth's stateliest, proudest, meanest reptile, man! + The beauty of a god adorns his form, + The foulness of a fiend is in his heart; + The viper's, or the scorpion's filthy nest + Nurses a far less deadly, poisonous brood + Than are the hellish lusts, the avarice,-- + The pride--the hate--the double-faced deceits-- + That make his breast their dwelling. + If he be not beneath hell's wish to damn, + Too lost for even fiends to meddle with, + How must they laugh to hear him, in his pride, + Baptize his vices, virtues; making use + Of holy names to designate his crimes; + Giving his lust the sacred name of love; + Calling his avarice a goodly sin, + Care for his household; naming his deceit + Praiseworthy caution; boasting of his hate, + When he no more can cloak it, as a proof + Of strength of mind and honesty of heart. + For all of goodness that remains on earth, + The name of virtue might be banished from it. + Fathers, who waste in shameful riotings + The bread for which their children cry at home; + Mothers, who put aside th' unconscious babe + That they may wrong its father; children, who + Grow old in crime ere they have spent their youth; + These are its habitants. + I cannot brook the thought, that I belong + To their vile race. My sufferings have been great, + And keen enough to prove my immortality; + For dust could not have borne what I have suffered. + My mind has pierced far, far beyond the length + Of mortal vision, and discovered things + Of which men scarcely dream, and paid in pain, + The price of what it learned and bought with pangs + By which a thousand ages were compressed + Into one hour of agony: a power + Which is a terror to possess, and yet + This one thought only irks me. + Methinks the peaceful earth will scarcely give + My dust a resting-place within its bosom, + But cast it forth as if too vile, to mingle + With clay that ne'er has been the slave of sin. + What! other watchers here at this lone hour? + + [An evil spirit enters, singing. + The world is half hidden, + By midnight's dark shadow; + The filly, witch-ridden, + Skims over the meadow; + The house-dog is barking, + The night-owl is hooting, + The glow-worm is sparkling, + The meteor is shooting; + And forms, which lie + So stiff and still, + In their shrouds so chill, + Through the live-long day, + Now burst their clay, + And flit through the sky, + On their dusky pinions: + Hell's dominions + Keep holiday. + Sisters, sisters, wherever your watches + Are kept, fleet hither to me, + Fleet hither, fleet hither, and leave earth's wretches + Alone to their misery. + + [A chorus of evil spirits answer as they enter from different + parts of the mountain. + We come! + Vice needs no assistance, + She meets no resistance, + Virtue's existence + Is only in name; + Drinking and eating, + Intriguing and cheating, + Carousing, completing + Their ruin and shame; + Old age unrepenting, + Manhood unrelenting, + Youth sighing and winning, + Deceiving and sinning, + Deserting, repining, + All men are the same. + Ho! ho! + Earth quakes with the weight of the anguish she bears, + Her plains and her valleys are deluged with tears, + And her sighs, if united, were deeper by far, + Than the thunderbolt's peal, when the clouds are at war. + There is, not a bosom, that bears not within + Its chambers, the blot and the burden of sin; + Not a mind, but in many an hour bath felt + The curse of its nature, the pangs of its guilt. + + These earth-worms! whose sire would have had us to bow + To his dust-moulded Godship! what--what are they now? + In the scale of true goodness, they sink far below + The poor, patient ox, that they yoke to the plough. + Let them revel awhile, in the false glaring light + Of deception, that blindness but seems to make bright; + Let them gather awhile of time's perishing flowers; + The revenge of eternity! This shall be ours! + Ho! ho! + + [They settle near the fountain. The first Spirit addresses them. + + The night is advancing, + Come, let us, dancing + In dewy circles deftly tread; + And while we dance round, + New schemes shall be found, + To ruin the living, and trouble the dead. + + [They form a circle on the margin of the stream, and dance round + singing. + + I. + + Life is but a fleeting day, + Half of which man dreams away; + Night! we follow in thy train-- + Sleep! supreme o'er thee we reign; + Ours the dreams that come when thou + Sit'st upon the unconscious brow; + Reason then deserts her throne, + We then reign, and we alone. + + II. + + Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, + Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, + Love's apple, and when we have found it, + Draw the magic circle round it;(1) + Fearless pluck it, then no charm + That it bears may do us harm; + Place it near the sleeper's head, + It will bring love's visions nigh, + And when the pleasing, dreams are fled, + The waking, pensive maid will sigh, + Till her bosom has possessed, + The form that made her dreams so blest. + And when a maiden finds a lover, + Her happy days are nearly over: + Nature hath unchaste desires, + Love awakes her slumbering fires, + And the bosom that is true in + Love is ever near its ruin; + Passion's pleading melts the frost + Of chilliest hearts, and all is lost: + For, once vice blots a maiden's name, + She soon forgets her maiden shame. + + III. + + Haunt the debauchee with dreams, + Of the victim of his schemes; + Paint her with dishevelled hair, + Streaming eyes, and bosom bare, + And with aspect pale and sad, + As a spectre's from the dead, + Weeping o'er her new-born, child, + Her name reproached, her fame despoiled: + Let her groanings reach his ear, + Pierce his heart, and rouse his fear + Of the retribution given, + To such deeds as his, by Heaven. + + IV. + + Around the drunkard's tattered couch, + Let pale-faced want and misery crouch, + His children shivering o'er the hearth, + Cheered by no sound of social mirth, + Upbraiding, with their timid glances, + The author of their sad mischances; + And she to whom the holy vow + Of the altar bound him, now + With sunken eye, and beauty faded, + Tresses silvered, brow o'ershaded, + Clinging to him fondly still, + With a love that mocks each ill, + Which would vainly strive to tear + Her soul from one who once was dear. + Now haste we, each our task to do, + Ere the starry hours wane through! + + [They fly off, singing as they disappear. + + Ere the Morning's rosy wing, + Has brushed the damp night-shades away, + Ere the birds their matins sing, + Choiring to the new-born day, + Though its bright birth-hour be near, + Many a sigh, and many a tear, + Shall attest the mystic might, + Of those who walk the world by night. + + Werner (solus). + + The ruin of the living! if that be + Your only task, you have a poor employ. + Give man his three score years, and he will make + A wreck, the skill of hell might show forth as + A sample of its handiwork, and then, + Exult at the completeness of its ruin. + The troubling of the dead!--if memory lives + In that far world, to which the spirit hastens, + When she casts off the clay that clogs her wings, + E'en there ye are forestalled, for man will need + No curse, to make his second life a hell, + If be retains the memory of his first. + Had the clear waters of this gurgling brook, + The pow'r to wash time's blots from th' mind's page, + And all earth's mountains were compact of gold, + Her rivers nectar, and her oceans wine, + Her hills all fruitful, and her valleys fresh, + And full of loveliness as Eden was, + Ere sin's sad blight fell on its living bow'rs, + And all were mine, I'd give them but to lay + My weary limbs along this streamlet's bed, + And sleep in full forgetfulness awhile. + But, I forget my task--now let me to it! + + [He takes a vial from his bosom, and flings its contents into the + air, chanting, + + Spirit + Wherever be thy home, + In earth or air, + My message hear, + And fear it. + By the power which I have earned, + To which thy knee has knelt, + By the spell which I have learned, + A spell which thou, hast felt, + I bid thee hither come! + + [A white cloud appears in the distance, floating up the glen, and + a voice is heard, singing as it approaches, + + I. + + I saw from port a vessel steer, + The skies were clear, the winds were fair, + More swiftly than the hunted deer, + Upon her snowy wings of air, + She flew along the silv'ry water, + As fearlessly as if some sprite, + Familiar with the deep, had taught her, + A spell by which to rule the might + Of winds and waves, when met to try + Their strength, up midway in the sky. + + II. + + Along her trackless watery way, + With unabated speed she flew, + Still gay and careless, till the day + Waned past: night came: the heavens grew + Black, dread and threat'ning. Then the storm + Came forth in its devouring wrath; + Before it fled Fear's pallid form; + Destruction followed in its path; + It passed: the morning came: in vain, + I look for that lost bark again. + + III. + + Far down beneath the deep blue waves, + Within some merman's coral hall, + Her fated crew have found their graves; + Above them, for their burial pall, + The mermaids spread their flowing tresses; + The waters chant their requiem; + From many an eyelid, Pity presses + Her tender, dewy tears for them: + The natives of the ocean weep, + To view them sleeping death's pale sleep. + + IV. + + Thou, mortal, wast the bark I saw; + The waters, were the sea of life; + And thou, alas! too well dost know, + What storms were imaged in the strife + Of winds and waves. The hopes of youth, + Thou, in that bark's lost crew, may'st see,-- + All buried now within that smooth, + Vast, boundless deep,--eternity:-- + And I, a spirit though I be, + Can pity still, and weep for thee. + + [The cloud settles near the fountain, and, unclosing, discovers + a beautiful form looking steadily at Werner. + + WERNER (addressing it). + + How beautiful! + If intercourse between all living worlds, + Had not been barr'd by Him who gave them life, + I should believe thou wert the guardian spirit, + Of that which men have named the Queen of Night. + Like her, thou art majestic, pale and sad, + And of a tender beauty: those bright curls + That press thy brow, and cling about thy neck, + Seem made of sunbeams, caught upon their way + To earth, by some creative hand, and woven + Into a fairy web, of light and life, + Conscious of its high source, and proud to be + A part of aught so beautiful as thou. + I have seen many full, bright mortal eyes, + That were a labyrinth of witching charms, + In which the heart of him who looked was lost; + But none like thine; their light is not of earth; + Their loveliness not like what man calls lovely. + Beside the smoothness of thy brow and cheek, + The lily's lip were rough; each of thy limbs, + Is, in itself, a being and a beauty. + If that the orb thou didst inhabit, ere + Thou wert a portion of eternity, + Was worthy of such dwellers, oh! how fair + And glorious, must have been its fields and bow'rs! + How clear its streams! how pure and fresh its airs! + How mellow were its fruits! how bright its flow'rs! + How strong and brave the beings, fit to share + It with thee! 'Tis most strange that He, whose hand + Fashions such wondrous things, should take delight + In striking them to nothingness again! + Perchance the author of all evil had + Invaded it, and made it quite unfit + To be a part of God's great universe. + And yet thou lookest as if thou wert beyond + The power of temptation to assail. + Hast thou too sinned? + + Spirit. + + I have lived as thou livest, died as thou + Wilt have to die, and am what thou shalt be. + + Werner + + I have not questioned thee of life or death, + Nor of the state which shall succeed them both; + I care not for the first, nor fear the second; + The last I leave to Him who gave to man + Eternity for his inheritance. + But I would know if the unceasing war, + Which good and evil wage upon the earth, + Has reached beyond, its confines. + + Spirit. + + Have I not answered thee? + The Begetter of worlds, stars, suns, and systems! + The Father of Creation! the Bridegroom + Of the Spirit! hath He not written that + Death has dominion only over sin? + And thou would'st know if other worlds have felt + The curse that fell upon, and blighted thine. + Poor simple child of clay! no doubt thou know'st + The story of the Eden of thy sire, + And think'st that there, in its fresh, stainless breast, + The baleful seeds of evil first were sown, + Which since have spread so fearfully abroad,-- + When the sad doom, that came on him and his, + Was but the spray, cast from the wave of fate, + Which just then reached thy newly finished orb. + Where it first started--whither tends its course-- + Where it shall stop--how many wrecks of worlds-- + Once fairer far than thine was at its birth-- + Shall strew its desolate way,--is not for things + Brought forth from dust to know. + What wouldst thou of me? + + Werner. + + The sole remaining good, if good it be, + That yet is mine to share. I have tried all + That earthly hope holds out to satisfy + The longings of man's nature. I have loved, + And made an idol of the thing I loved, + And worshipped it with all my soul's intensity; + And, for awhile, the frenzy of my dream + Shut out all other thoughts. But it was short; + Death plucked my lovely flower from my grasp, + And then, the icy chill of desolation + Came, like a snowy avalanche, upon + My heart, and froze the fountains of its feeling. + I was ambitious. I have striven for, + And worn, the gaudiest wreath of fame, and when + I would have placed it on my brow, it grew + A mountain in its weight. I courted much + The notice of the world, and when men praised, + The very breath that bore their praise to me, + Seemed clogged with pestilence. + + Wealth, too, I coveted, + And heaped its shining dust in hoards around me, + And yet it was but dust, as barren of + Enjoyment as the ground we tread upon. + I clad myself in purple--heaped my board + With all the fairest, sweetest fruits of earth, + And filled my golden goblets with bright juice, + Pressed from the goodliest grapes, and made my couch + Of down, and yet, I was most wretched still. + My garments were but cumbersome; my couch + Could give no rest, and e'en my generous wines + Could not remove the crushing weight that sat, + Nightmare-like, on my heart, until it grew + A palpable and keenly aching pang. + There is, one path which yet remains untrod; + To be my guide in it, I called thee hither,-- + 'Tis that of knowledge. + + Spirit. + + The same + In which the mother of thy race was lost, + With e'en a wiser, mightier guide than I. + She thirsted, too, for knowledge, and she gave + Her innocence--her home in Paradise-- + The happiness of him--who shared her lot-- + To know--what? That her own rebellious hand + Had raised the flood-gates of a sea of crime, + Which would for ever pour its bitter waves + Upon the helpless unprotected race, + Which her rash deed had ruined. + Think of the sighs--the groans--the floods of tears-- + The woes--too deep for these--which have no end, + Save but in heart-breaks! Think upon the toil-- + The sweat--the pain--the strife--the crime--the blood-- + The myriads of souls with which this one + Sad lesson was obtained! whose price is yet + Not fully paid, nor shall be so, until + The last poor son of earth mingles with dust! + Dost thou not fear to tread a path like this? + + Werner. + + I have no fear; + It is so long since I have felt its thrill + That 'twere a pleasure now to feel it. + + Spirit. + + What wouldst thou know? + Thou art familiar with all earthly lore. + More: Thou hast gained, and wield'st a power, to which + The rulers of the elements do bow; + The hurricane, at thy command goes forth, + Walking where'er thou bid'st it, and the storm + Ceases to howl when thou hast said,--"Be still!" + Thine anger stirs the ocean, and thy wrath + Finds out the deep foundations of the mountains, + And shakes them with its strength; the subtle fire, + That lights the tempest on its gloomy way, + Starts from its cloud-rocked slumber, at thy call, + To be thy messenger. + Canst thou not be content when thou art feared + By those who rule a world? What is there yet + Which thy insatiate mind desires to know? + Would'st learn immortal mysteries? Reflect + Thou art but mortal. + + Werner. + + Spirit, why dost thou + Taunt me with my mortality? "Weak things, + Brought forth from earth,"--"Poor simple child of clay,"-- + These are thy words, when well thou knows't that I, + Though bound to earth by bonds made of its mire, + Am mightier than thou. Were it not so, + Thou would'st not now be face to face with one + Of mortal birth. Thou, too, canst feel revenge, + And knowest how to wreak it; but, take heed,-- + The power which brought thee hither, can, and may + Deal harshly with thee. If thou knowest aught + Worthy of an immortal mind to know, + To which I have not pierced, reveal thy knowledge. + + Spirit. + + We may not tell the secrets of eternity; + But I can show thee things thou hast not seen, + And they may profit thee, although 'twill shake + Even thy proud heart to look upon them. + Would'st see them? + + Werner. + + It is my wish. + + Spirit. + + Come then. + + Werner. + + Lead on; + Although thy path be through hell's gloomy gate, + I too will pass its portals at thy back. + Thou canst not enter where I dare not pass. + + [The cloud closes around them, and moves away, and a voice sings + as it disappears. + + To the region of shadow, + The region of death, + Where dust is a stranger, + And life has no breath; + Where darkness and silence + Their dim shrouds have cast + Round the phantoms of worlds + That belong to the past; + Spirits who sit on + The thrones of the air, + Guide ye our chariot, + Waft ye us there. + + [Exeunt. + + + + +ACT II. + + The verge of Creation. Enter Werner and Spirit. + + Werner. + + We have outtravelled light and sound: + The harmonies that pealed around us, as + Through yon array of dim and distant worlds + We winged our flight, have wholly died away, + Or come to us so faintly echoed, that + Our ears must watch and wait to catch them. + Those stars are now like watch-fires, which though seen + Blazing afar, send not their light to make + The path of the benighted wanderer + More plain and cheerful. + Before us stretches one vast field of gloom, + So dense as to appear impenetrable:-- + Darkness, that has a body and a form, + Both palpable to touch and sight, across + Our path a barrier rears that seems to bar + Our farther progress. If there be, beyond + This wall of blackness, aught of mystery, + What power shall guide us to it? + + Spirit. + + Thy mind + Which, from the influence of matter, free + As it is now and shall be till again + Though art returned unto thy native orb, + Is its own master, and its will is now + Its only needed guide. + Strange things are hidden by that ebon veil, + To which a single wish of thine may bear us. + + Werner. + + Then let us on: + Since we our search for knowledge have begun, + Wherever there is aught that Power has made, + Which Time has ruined, or which Fate has damned, + There let us go, that we may look on it, + And learn its history. What intense glooms + We now are passing through! I feel them part + Before, and close behind us, as we fly, + As plainly as the swimmer feels the waves + That lave his gliding limbs. This sure must be + The home of Death--no voice, no sound, no sigh, + Not ev'n so much of breath as would suffice + To make a lily tremble! + + Spirt. + + Though say'st true, + This is indeed the realm of Death,--at least + It has no more of life than what though hast + Brought here with thee,--I speak of mortal life: + We now are near the Hades of past worlds, + Whose spirits have a life which cannot die. + You laugh! and show the haughty arrogance + Which in your mortal brethren you cotemn. + Think you that he who gave to man his mind, + The undying spark that quickens his clay frame, + Would fashion from the same material + Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go + Hymning around his everlasting throne! + Giving to them a beauty which alone + Could be conceived by him, which has great hand + Alone could mould into reality, + And yet deny them what he gave to thee, + Intelligence! a thing that knows not death? + Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves, + Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides, + Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub, + With a fair foliage? hast though not beheld + Her weaving, in the sunny springtide hours, + A fairy web of emerald-bladed grass + To robe her valleys in? With every flow'r + Of graceful form, and soft and downy leaf, + And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns, + To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came, + With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits, + Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow, + And shake her yellow locks from every hill? + Hast though not heard her holy songs of peace + And plenty warbled from each vocal grove, + And murmured by her myriads of streams? + Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds, + Which moan the requiem of the dying year, + Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap about + Her breast a mantle, wherewith to protect + And nurse the seed, the trusting husbandman + Hath given to her keeping? Are thine acts + As full of wisdom, and as free from blame? + If not, then why deny to her the life + And spirit you possess? + + Werner. + + I did not laugh + In disbelief of what thy words declare, + But they stir such strange thoughts within my mind, + That, as I will not weep, I can but smile. + Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,-- + A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like that + Which, when the storm has chosen midnight's hour + Of stilly gloom, to hold its revel in, + First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent, + And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us. + The light increases still, and in the distance, + Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes, + Since seemingly immovable, and others + Like mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, moved + By magic o'er a tideless, waveless ocean, + In calm, majestic silence float along! + + Spirit. + Let us go nearer, + Now what seest though? + + Werner. + + Worlds like to that I live on, save that these + Seem made of living shades instead of dust; + Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks, + And fountains, gushing from their very summits; + Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens, + And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,-- + With precipices from whose edges soft + And silvery cataracts are leaping down; + Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides, + And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep + In the embrace of the surrounding hills; + The cottage of the hardy hunter, perched + High on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest: + The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold, + And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vines + Bending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;-- + Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams, + And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand; + Majestic rivers, with their verdant banks + Studded with towns, and rural villages; + Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave, + And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart! + And mighty cities, standing on their coasts, + With vasty walls and gilded palaces, + And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seem + The guardians of all they overlook. + Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appear + Like watchers of the dead whose names they bear! + All these are there, but not a sign of life, + No living thing that creeps along the ground, + Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen. + It seems as if on all things some strong spell + Had in the twinkling of a star came down + And rocked them to an everlasting sleep! + Spirit! tell me if what I see is more + Than a delusion; if it be, whence came + These shades? + + Spirit. + + And have I not already said + That these things are, that they are quick with life,-- + Such life as disembodied spirits have,-- + That they are deathless? Thou need'st not inquire + Of me whence they are come, for thou hast seen + One of their number on its journey hither. + The period may not be far remote + When thine own planet, starting from its sphere, + Shall fright the dwellers of the stars that skirt + Its destined pathway to these silent realms! + Thou'st seen the comet rushing through the sky, + And, gazing on the glowing track which it + Had branded on the azure breast of space, + Thinking thy words were wisdom, thou hast said, + "When its full term of years has been fulfilled, + It shall return again." Not knowing that + The light thou sawest was reflected from + That sacred fire, which, in the end, shall purge + The spirit essence which pervades creation, + From the dull dust with which a wayward fate + Has clogged its being! Question me no more-- + Remember what I said--I dare not tell + The secrets of Eternity. Look on + And learn whate'er thou canst. + + Werner. + + There is one thing which I at last have learned,-- + To feel that with the increase of our knowledge + Our sorrows must increase. I oft have heard, + But never before have felt the truth of this. + To know that were it not for this clay mask, + I even now might pierce the shadowy veil + That wraps in mystery the things I see, + And comprehend their secret principle, + Will make life doubly hard to bear, and tempt + Me much to shake it prematurely off, + And snatch wings for my spirit ere its time. + A total ignorance were better than + The flash which from its slumber wakes the mind, + And then, departing, leaves it to itself, + In the wide maze of error, darkly groping. + Wisdom is not the medicine to heal + A discontented mind. I now know more + Than when I left the earth, but feel that I + Have bought my knowledge with increase of sorrow. + + Spirit. + + Did I not tell thee that its path were steep, + And hard to climb, and thick beset with thorns,-- + And that its tempting, longed-for fruit, tho' bought + With a great price, is full of bitterness? + If though art satisfied, let us retrace + Our way to earth again; wert thou to go + Yet farther on, thou might'st regret the more + Our coming hither. + + Werner. + + What! is there aught still more remote than these + From the great centre of the universe,-- + The fair domain of life and living things? + + Spirit. + + There is,-- + A kingdom tenanted with such dark shapes, + That angels shudder when they look on them! + Thou surely dost not wish to visit it. + + Werner. + + Why not? There is within my mind a void + Whose vacant weight is harder to be borne + Than the keen stingings of more active pangs; + When it has traced the mystic chain of being + To its last link, it may perchance shake off + The misery of restless discontent,-- + Its fulness then may sink it into rest. + + Spirit. + + I have no power to disobey thy word; + If thou wilt on, I must proceed with thee, + Even though in looking on I share the pangs + Of those who suffer. + + Werner. + + Come, then, I too must see them, tho' it cost + Me years of pain to gaze but for a moment. + + Spirit. + + 'Twere harder now to find Eve's' buried dust, + Than to declare who has inherited + The largest portion of her prying spirit. + + (Sings.) + + Where Pain keepeth vigil + With Sorrow and Care, + And Horror sits watching + By dull-eyed Despair,-- + Where the Spirit accurst + Maketh moan in its wo, + Thy wishes direct us, + And thither we go. + + [Exeunt. + + + + +ACT III. + + Scene I. Near the place of the damned. Enter Werner and Spirit. + + Werner. + + What piercing, stunning sounds assail my ear! + Wild shrieks and wrathful curses, groans and prayers, + A chaos of all cries! making the space + Through which they penetrate to flutter like + The heart of a trapped hare,--are revelling round us. + Unlike the gloomy realm we just have quitted, + Silent and solemn, all is restless here, + All wears the ashy hue of agony. + Above us bends a black and starless vault, + Which ever echoes back the fearful voices + That rise from the abodes of wo beneath. + Around us grim-browed desolation broods, + While, far below, a sea of pale gray clouds, + Like to an ocean tempest beaten, boils. + Whither shall we direct our journey now? + + Spirit. + + Right down through yon abyss of boiling clouds, + If though hast courage to attempt the plunge, + Our pathless way must be. A moment more + And we shall stand where angels seldom stand, + And devils almost pity when they stand,-- + Behold! + + Werner. + + Eternal God! + Whose being, is of love, whose band is pow'r, + Whose breath is life, whose noblest attribute,-- + The one most worthy of thyself~-is mercy! + Were these of thine immortal will conceived? + Has thy hand shaped them out the forms they wear? + Has thy breath made them quick with, breathing life? + And is thy mercy to their wailings deaf? + Poor creatures! I bad deemed that in my breast + Grief had congealed the hidden fount of tears, + But ye have drawn them from their frozen source + And I do weep for you! + + Spirit. + + What moves thee thus? + I thought thy heart so steeled in hardihood + Of universal hate, and pride, and scorn, + That even were the woes, which thou dost here + Behold endured by others, heaped on thee, + Thy haughty soul unmoved would feel them all; + Accounting its development of strength + To bear the worst decrees of ruthless fate, + Sufficient recompense! + + Werner. + + Misdeem me not, + If I have wept involuntary tears + O'er pangs beyond my pow'r to mitigate, + Believe me, 'twas in pity, not in fear. + But tell me, Spirit! is all hope extinct + In those who here sojourn, or do they look + Yet forward to some blest millennial day, + Which shall redeem them from this horrid place. + + Spirit. + + Best ask your theologians that question. + Some say that there are places purgatorial, + Where Error pays the price of her transgressions + In sufferings that efface the effects of sin. + And other some declare that when the soul + And clay are parted, heaven seals the doom + Of both, beyond repeal. Let thy own mind + Sit arbiter 'twixt these, and choose the truth. + Mark what approaches us, and mark it well. + + Werner. + + I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yet + It makes the warm blood curdle in my veins. + Than it, hell cannot hold a fouler form-- + A thing of more unholy loathsomeness! + Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood, + Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked, + Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam! + A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales, + And through its heaving bosom you may mark + The constant preying of a quenchless flame + That gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moan + Of mingled wrath, and madness, and despair, + Perpetually issues from its lips;-- + And with unequal but unceasing steps, + It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom, + A mocking phantom,--fair as it is foul! + With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks, + And big black eyes that dart the humid flame + Which sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips, + And checks as spotless as the falling flake + Ere it has touched the earth, and supple form + Wherein is knit each grace of womanhood + In its perfection! and with wanton looks + That speak the burning language of desire, + It seems to woo its loathsome follower,-- + Yet ever from his foul embraces flies. + And on his brow his name is written, "Lust!" + Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight, + And sears my brain with its dark hideousness! + + Spirit. + + 'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears. + + Werner. + + A frame which may be that of Hercules, + It hath such giant members! and its port + Is martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving. + Its sandals are of brass, its massive brow + Is helmeted in steel, and in its hand + It bears a sword with which, in idle strokes, + It vainly beats the unresisting air, + As if in battle with some phantom foe; + And at each blow it deals, a strong fatality + Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast, + Which deep it gashes,--then in mournful tone, + It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,-- + "I fought for fame and won unending wo." + His agonies seem like himself, immortal. + + Spirit. + + Justice is blameless of his sufferings: + For many years his busy, plotting brain, + Made discord out of union, strife from peace, + And set the nations warring till the earth + Was crimson with the blood poured out for him! + He bears what he inflicted,--let him pass + And mark what follows him. + + Werner. + + A goodly shape, + More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre, + Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars! + A broken harp, suspended at his side, + A faded garland, wreathed about his brow, + Tell what he was, and still employ his care. + With thin white hand, that trembles at its task, + In vain he strives to bind the broken chords, + And to their primal melody attune them;-- + In vain,--for to his efforts still replies + A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound. + And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks, + He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow, + And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,-- + "For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth, + Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,-- + 'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus." + Is not the justice which confines him here + Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart + Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness. + + Spirit. + + Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man, + Is but a moral seed, which, in due season, + Must bring forth fruit according to its kind. + The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,-- + + Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,-- + The fruits are garnered in Eternity, + To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food! + If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have been + Of corrupt tendency, or evil nature,-- + What marvel if we feed on bitterness?-- + What shadow next appears? + + Werner. + + An aged man, + Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneath + The weight of years, or worldly cares that press + Still heavier than the iron hand of time. + His tottering form is fearful to behold! + If the fierce scourge which men on earth call famine, + Could incarnate itself, methinks 'twould choose + Just such a shape, so worn and grim and gaunt, + And wo-begone of aspect. Groping round + He gathers from the burning floor of hell + Some shining pebbles, which his fond conceit + Transmutes to gold, and these with constant care + He watches, counting and recounting them, + Till suddenly a whirlwind, sweeping by, + Bears with it all his fancied hoards away, + Leaving him to renew his bootless task, + Which ever he renews with this complaint,-- + "Alas! how speedily may wealth take wing." + And on his front his name is written, "Avarice." + + Spirit. + + There yet is, in this shadowy land of shades, + One form which I would have thee look upon. + Behold it cometh! mark and scan it well. + + Werner. + + Never before in all my wanderings + Through earth, or other regions, where abide + Things now no more of earth, have I beheld + Aught so profoundly mournful or so lone! + So dark a cloud o'erhangs his haggard brow, + That where he turns a dunner, murkier gloom + Prevails along hell's blasting atmosphere! + Surrounded by some goodly forms he moves, + Forms bright as his is dark, who each in turn + Woo his acceptance of the gifts they proffer. + Love stretches out his dimpled band, wherein + He holds his emblematic rose, and Hope, + Bright Hope, that might renew again the pulse + Of life within the frozen veins of Death! + Beckons him to the future,--and calm Faith + Kindles beneath his eye her beacon blaze; + Yet, with such anguish as hell only holds, + He turns him from all these, and will not take + Love's proffered rose, lest 'neath its blushing leaves + Should lurk the stinging thorn of sly deceit. + + Hope's smile to him is disappointment's signal,-- + And the bright beacon Faith so kindly lights + To guide us o'er the treacherous sea of life, + To him is but a cheat, a mockery, + An ignis fatuus, kindled to mislead. + And yet he seems as one who in his life + Had nursed bright dreams, and cherished lofty aims,-- + Had dreamed of love, or wooed Ambition's smiles, + Or to the sway of empires had aspired, + Or, higher still, the sway of human hearts! + Why gazest thou on me and not on him? + + Spirit. + + To mark if in thine aspect I might not + Detect a consciousness that I thy own soul + Claimed brotherhood with his! Thou too hast scoffed + At human love, and hope, and faith, and truth, + Nursing within thy bosom pride, and scorn, + And rankling hate, I till these at length became + Fiends which thou could'st not master! Thou art warned, + Be wise and heed the warning. Let us now + Return unto thy far off, native orb, + O'er which the rosy smile of morn is breaking, + Waking its teeming millions to renew + Their daily rounds of toil and strife and crime. + + [Exeunt. + + + + +ACT IV. + + Scene I. A peak of the Alps. Werner alone. Time, morning. + + Werner. + + How gloriously beautiful is earth! + In these her quiet, unfrequented haunts, + To which, except the timid chamois' foot, + Or venturous hunter's, or the eagle's wing, + Naught from beneath ascends. As yet the sun + But darts his earliest rays of golden light + Upon the summits of the tallest peaks, + Which robed in clouds and capped with glittering ice, + Soar proudly up, and beam and blaze aloft, + As if they would claim kindred with the stars! + And they may claim such kindred, for there is + Within, around, and over them, the same + Supreme, eternal, all-creating spirit + Which glows and burns in every beaming orb + That circles in immeasurable space! + Far as the eye can trace the mountain's crest + On either hand, a gorgeous, varied mass + Of glowing, cloud-formed ranges are at rest, + Reflecting back in every hue and tint, + + Purple and crimson, orange and bright gold, + The sunny smile with which Morn hails the world. + Beneath me all is quiet yet and calm, + For the dim shadow of the silent night + Still rests upon the valley, still the flock + Sleeps undisturbed within the guarded fold, + The lark yet slumbers in her lowly nest, + The dew hangs heavy upon leaf and blade, + The gray mist still o'erveils the unruffled lake, + And all is tranquil as an infant's sleep; + Tranquil around me, but not so within, + For in my breast a thousand restless thoughts + Conflict in wild, chaotical confusion. + Thoughts of long bygone years, and things that were + But are no more, and thoughts that sternly strive + To grapple with the mysteries I late + Have looked upon; for I, since yesternight, + Have traversed the wide sea of space that rolls + Between the shores of this and other worlds; + Have gazed upon and scanned those worlds, or shades + That wear the lineaments of such; have seen + The damned in their own place, and marked the deep, + Terrific retribution Error brings + To such as are her votaries in life. + And now I feel how baseless was my hope + That Peace, the solitary boon I crave, + Might spring from knowledge. Tis a fatal tree, + Which ever hath borne bitter fruit, since first + 'Twas set in Paradise. But I must seek + The cottage of some honest mountaineer, + Who may afford me nurture and repose, + For I am weary, both in mind and frame. + [Exit. + + Scene II. A chamber in the cottage of Manuel. Albert asleep. + Rebecca standing by his couch. + + Rebecca. + + My boy! my beautiful, my dearest hope! + The garner where my trust of future joy + Is treasured. Heaven bless thee! May thy life, + If it seem good to Him who gave it, be + Blest to the fulness of a mother's prayer! + + [She stoops to kiss him, and continues. + + How well his sleep portrays a quiet mind, + The embodied image of a sunny day, + A day without a cloud, whose only voices + Arise from sighing airs, and whispering leaves, + And tell-tale brooks that of their banks beseech + A gift, a wreath of their sweet flowers, wherewith + To soothe the angry Geni of the deep! + And free, glad birds that flit from bough to bough, + And ring their songs of love in the clear air, + Till heaven is filled with gushing melody, + And the all-glowing horizon becomes + A thing of life, whose breath is sweetest music! + + [Kisses him again, and continues. + + His brow to me is as a spotless page, + Whereon is traced the story of my first + And only love, the bright and holy dream + That stole into my bosom, when beside + The crystal stream that threads a neighbouring vale, + I and his father watched our fathers' flocks, + And he would lay aside his shepherd's pipe, + And in low words, far sweeter than its music, + Talk of the sun and stars and gentle moon, + The earth and all its loveliness, the trees + And shrubs and flowers; how these were all pervaded + And quickened by the spirit of deep love; + Till, by the frequent blush that tinged my cheek, + The light that would break from my downcast eyes, + And the quick beat of my too happy heart, + Emboldened, he poured out his own pure passion, + On my enchanted ear! Since then my life + Has had no eras,--days, and months, and years, + Have all gone by uncounted, in the full, + Deep, fervent, soul-sufficing happiness, + Of all I prayed for, panted for, obtained! + But I must rouse him, it is time his flock + Should leave the fold, and-- + + [The boy starts and murmurs in his sleep. + + Down by yonder stream, + Where the green willows cluster thickest, there + They dwell. 'Tis scarce so far as I could cast + A pebble from my sling. Seek it, and they + Will minister to thee what thou mayest need. + + [He awakes, and recognising his mother, exclaims-- + + Ah, mother! I have dreamed so strange a dream, + So strange, and yet so palpable, that I + Believed it a reality. Methought + As closely followed by my bleating flock, + I climbed the rugged mountain side where spring + Our greenest pastures, singing as I went, + I met a lonely wanderer in my way, + Of brow so pale, and eye so darkly sad, + That my own heart, to sadness little used, + Grew heavy at the sight; and he seemed worn + And very weary, not so much with toil + As by some hidden, inward strife of soul, + Which even then seemed raging in his breast. + He stayed to question me where he might find + The cottage of some honest mountaineer, + Where he might crave the boons of rest and food,-- + And mindful of the lesson taught by thee, + To give the hungry bread, the weary rest, + I pointed him to where our cottage stands, + Assuring him that thou and my sweet sister,-- + Fair as aught earthly, and as pure as fair,-- + Would entertain him as a welcome guest: + And so we parted. + + Rebecca. + Thou didst well to mind + The lesson I so often have repeated. + It is our first of duties to give aid + To those who beg for succour at our hands; + For we ourselves, whatever we possess, + Are but the stewards of the bounteous Lord + Who giveth to his creatures all good gifts. + But it is time that thou shouldst seek the hills, + So take thy crook and pipe and hie away. + + [Exeunt. + + Scene III. The side of a mountain. Werner descending. + Enter a shepherd boy, followed by his flock, singing. + + I. + + When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep, + Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep, + I start from my slumbers, and hie me away + Where the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,-- + I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,-- + I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,-- + I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peak + That rises high over them, barren and bleak; + And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile, + In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while; + And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy, + That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy! + + II. + + When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high, + Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky, + Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells, + The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,-- + I list to its gay tones, as by me they float, + And I echo them merrily back, note for note; + With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing, + I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,-- + My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier, + And my sceptre--a mild one--the crook that I bear; + No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy, + I live an unenvying, free shepherdboy! + + Werner (meets and addresses him). + + Thou'rt merry, lad. + + Albert. + + Ay, I have cause to be so. + (Aside.) + It is the wanderer of my last night's dream, + The same pale brow, and darkly mournful eye, + And weary gait, and melancholy voice,-- + If he seeks friendly guidance, food, or shelter, + He shall not want them long. + + Werner. + + So thou hast cause + For merriment,--then thou perchance hast wealth, + Broad, fruitful lands, and tenements, and all + Which wealth confers. + + Albert. + + Nay, I have none of these, + And yet have more than all which thou hast named. + I have a father, whose unsullied name + No tongue has ever spoken with reproach, + A mother, whose idea is with me + A holy thing, and a dear sister, who + Is fair as pure, and pure as is the snow + Upon the summit of the tallest peak + Of these my native mountains. I have health, + And strength, and food, and raiment, and employ, + And should I not then have a joyous heart? + + Werner. + + Yea, verily thou shouldst. + + Albert. + + And there is yet, + Among the blessings Heaven has given to me, + One which I have not named to thee; it is + An humble home, whose hospitable door + Was never closed against the wayfarer,-- + If thou hast need of aught which it affords, + Seek it, my mother and my sister will + Delight to minister unto thy wants. + There where the wide-armed willows cluster thickest + Upon the green banks of yon crystal stream, + Our cottage stands. The path to it is short + And easily traversed,--so, now, farewell. + + Werner. + + Stay yet a moment. That which thou hast proffered, + Is what I sought. Thou hast a noble heart, + One fit to fill the bosom of a king,-- + I fain would give thee guerdon,--here is gold. + + Albert. + + Keep it for those who covet it. If ever + Thou meet'st with one, bowed down by suffering, + Who calls on thee for pity and relief, + Then if thou heed'st his prayer for my sake, + I shall be well repaid. Again, farewell. + + {Exeunt. + + Scene IV. After a lapse of time. A rustic arbour near the + cottage of Manuel. Enter Rose and Werner. + + Rose. + + Nay, let my silent blushes plead with thee + That thou wilt be as silent. + + Werner. + + Rather let + My ardent love, which will not be repressed, + Plead with thee for acceptance of my suit; + For I do love thee with such passionate love, + That life itself, if weighed against that love, + Were scarce a feather in the scale. + + Rose. + + Alas! + I'm but a simple shepherd's simple child, + Unused to courtly speeches, and they say + That in the world thy name and rank are high, + And that when such as thou do proffer love + And faith to lowly maidens, 'tis a jest,-- + And that when they have won our honest love, + They cast it from them with unpitying hands, + As idly as they would a withered flower. + + Werner. + + Nay, maiden, let me tell thee of the past, + Let me lay bare my heart beneath thy gaze, + And thou wilt pity if thou canst not love. + I loved in youth with love as fond and deep + As ever made the heart of man its slave, + But, ere my hopes could ripen to fruition, + Death came and made my worshipped one his prize; + And though my peace departed when she died, + Yet I was proud, and would not bond to sorrow, + But with calm brow and eye, and smiling lip, + I mingled with the giddy thoughtless world, + Seeking from out its varied realms to wring + Some recompense for that which I had lost. + Wealth, fame, and power, I sought for and obtained, + Yet found them only gilded mockeries. + The paths of hidden knowledge I essayed, + And trod their mazy windings till they led + My footsteps--whither I may not disclose,-- + But all availed me nothing, still my heart + Ached with the dreary void lost love had made, + Ached ever till that void was filled by thee! + Since first fate led me to your kindly door, + Three times the moon with full-orbed light hath shone, + Thrice thirty times, with song of merry birds + And breath of fragrance, Morn has blest the earth + And all its dwellers with her radiant presence; + Thrice thirty times, with star-bound brow, dim Night + Hath kept her tearful watch above the earth; + And every time the full-orb'd moon hath shone, + And every time the merry Morn hath smiled, + And every time dim Night with star-bound brow + Above the earth hath kept her tearful watch, + My heart has added to its store of love, + Its pure, deep, fervent, passionate love for thee! + By all my hopes of heaven, my words are true. + Dost thou not pity now? + + Rose. + + Ay, more! My heart, + And its full treasury of maiden love, + Never before surrendered to another, + I pledge to thee, as thine, for evermore! + + [Exeunt. + + An Aerial Chorus. + + Seek the dell and seek the bower, + Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, + Search for buds of sweetest breath, + Search for flowers of brightest hue; + Fit to weave the bridal wreath, + Of a maid so fair and true. + + She has bowed the haughty heart, + Won the stubborn will from guile, + With no aid of other art + Than the sweet spell of her smile! + + Seek the dell and seek the bower, + Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, + Search for buds of sweetest breath, + Search for flowers of brightest hue; + Fit to weave the bridal wreath, + Of a maid so fair and true! + + [Exeunt. + + +Note to the Misanthrope + +"Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, +Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, +Love's apple,--and when we have found it, +Draw the magic circles round it." + +Considering the Mandrake, many fabulous notions were entertained +by the ancients; and they never attempted to extract it from the +earth, without the previous performance of such ceremonies as they +considered efficacious in preventing the numerous accidents, dangers, +and diseases, to which they believed the person exposed who was +daring enough to undertake its extraction. The usual manner of +obtaining it was this:--When found, three times a circle was drawn +around it with the point of a naked sword, and a dog was then +attached to it and beaten, until by his struggles it was disengaged +from the earth. + +It was supposed to be useful in producing dreams, philters, charms +&c.; and also to possess the faculties of exciting love, and +increasing population. + +The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is +drinking the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence +it was called Love-apple. + +It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS + + + + +TO ISABEL + + A Beautiful Little Girl. + + Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower, + Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep; + Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power + Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep + Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower + Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep + O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,-- + Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child. + + Thy presence is a spell of holiness, + From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,-- + Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless, + As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,-- + Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress + Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack + Of misery, and charmed by what she hears, + Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears. + + And when I look upon thee, bearing now + The promise of such loveliness, I ask + If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow, + So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask + Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou + Art learning in thy soul the bitter task + Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow + Of hope is o'er--but this I may not know. + + My path will not be near to thine through life,-- + Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee; + Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife, + And all that sorrow has of agony; + My future, as my past was, will be rife + With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;" + Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years, + Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears. + + 'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made + A wreck of my own happiness, and cast + Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade + That wrinkled age flings over all at last + But let it go,--I have too long delayed + The remedy, and what is past is past;-- + And could I live those vanished moments o'er, + My heart would wander as it strayed before. + + I know not how it is,--my heart is stern, + And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness; + Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn, + And in my bosom's innermost recess, + Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn + With a wild strength which nothing can repress! + Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold + And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould? + + Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom, + Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move, + I trace the lineaments of one to whom + My soul was wedded in an early love,-- + 'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb + Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above + Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept + That mine should in its bondage still be kept. + + I mind the hour I stood beside the clay + I had so loved in life--it still was fair, + Surpassing fair, in death; and as she lay + With the thick tresses of her long dark hair + Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray + Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there, + Her more than earthly beauty made her seem + The incarnation of some pure bright dream. + + I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound + About the form from which life's spark was fled, + For ever fled,--wet eyes were weeping round, + And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead; + I could not weep; a sadness more profound + Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed, + Was in my soul,--for then the icy spell + Of desolation freezing o'er me fell. + + And from that hour I have been alone, + Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fate + Be coloured with a brighter hue, and strown + With flowers where mine is thorns;--where mine is hate, + And strife, and bitter discord, may thine own + Be love, and hope, and peace--for these create + The sunshine of existence; may their light + Beam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright. + + + + +THE LOCK OF HAIR. + + It is in sooth a lovely tress, + Still curled in many a ring, + As glossy as the plumes that dress + The raven's jetty wing. + And the broad and soul-illumined brow, + Above whose arch it grew, + Was like the stainless mountain snow, + In its purity of hue. + + I mind the time 'twas given to me, + The night, the hour, the spot; + And the eye that pleaded silently, + "Forget the giver not." + Oh! myriads of stars, on high, + Were smiling sweetly fair, + But none was lovely as the eye + That shone beside me there! + + Above our heads an ancient oak + Its strong, wide arms held out, + And from its roots a fountain broke, + With a tiny laughing shout; + And the fairy people of the wild + Were bending to their rest, + As trustingly as sleeps the child + Upon its mother's breast. + + Soft, silvery cloudlets, pure and white, + Along the sky were hung, + As if the spirits of the night + Their mantles there had flung; + And then the night-breeze pensively + Sighed from its unseen throne, + And far o'er field, and flower, and tree, + A hallowed light came down. + + But in our breasts was springing up + A something lovelier far, + Than field, or tree, or flow'ret's cup, + Or sun, or moon, or star! + We heeded not the fountain near, + Its song of gladness singing, + For in our hearts a fount more dear, + And pure, and sweet, was springing. + + And she was one whom fortune's smile + Had gladdened from her birth, + Yet her high spirit knew no guile, + No blot nor stain of earth; + And I was but a friendless boy, + And yet her heart was mine; + I knew it, and the thought was joy, + A joy all, all divine! + + From out a braided mass she took + This single lock of jet, + And gave it with that pleading look + Which, said, "Do not forget." + Forget! as soon the waves that roll + The ocean's caves above, + May tell their secrets, as the soul + Forget its earliest love. + + It has been with me now for years, + Long years of care and strife, + And shall be with me till time wears + Away my web of life. + And when death's keen, resistless dart, + Shall bid its sorrows cease, + This tress shall rest upon my heart, + Its talisman of peace. + + + "'Twas little she thought that I stood breathless by her side + listening to the song she sang as she sat by the sea's edge, + pondering so deeply, upon me too perhaps, that the white foam + glimmered on her brow unheeded." + + Onagh, The Pale Child of the Brehon King. + + She stood beside the wide wild sea, + The winds howled hoarse and high, + And dark clouds, drifting drearily, + Swept o'er the starless sky. + + Her breast was white as mountain snow, + Her locks hung loose and free, + The foam that glimmered on her brow, + Was scarce so pale as she. + + She sang a mournful song of love, + Of trusting love betrayed; + Ah, why did he who won her, prove + So faithless to the maid? + + "Why pines my heart so wearily, + Why heaves my aching breast, + And why is sleep so far from me, + When others are at rest? + + "Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep, + The cause of all my cares; + For thee at night I wake and weep, + When none may mark my tears. + + "I seek the festive hall no more, + Its mirth no more I crave; + My heart is lonely as the shore, + And restless as the wave. + + "My soul has struggled to forget + Its sleepless, fatal flame; + I know thy vows were false, and yet + My love is still the same. + + "Still o'er the dream I nursed too well, + My bursting heart will yearn; + For ever with me must it dwell,-- + Oh, wanderer, return!" + + A white sail fluttered in the wind, + A light bark skimmed the sea,-- + It came like hope across the mind, + As swift and silently. + + The shell-strewn beach that edged the main, + A manly footstep pressed; + The wanderer had returned again,-- + The maiden's heart was blessed! + + + + +THE DESERTED. + + "Come, sit thee by my side once more, + 'Tis long since thus we' met; + And though our dream of love is o'er, + Its sweetness lingers yet. + Its transient day has long been past, + Its flame has ceased to burn,-- + But Memory holds its spirit fast, + Safe in her sacred urn. + + "I will not chide thy wanderings, + Nor ask why thou couldst flee + A heart whose deep affection's springs + Poured forth such love for thee! + We may not curb the restless mind, + Nor teach the wayward heart + To love against its will, nor bind + It with the chains of art. + + "I would but tell thee how, in tears + And bitterness, my soul + Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years, + Which it could not control. + And how the thought that clingeth to, + And twineth round the past, + For ever in my heart shall glow, + And be save one my last. + + "They say thou hast another's love,-- + Well, cherish it, but thou + Its lack of strength and depth wilt prove, + Should sorrow cloud thy brow. + Though she may own a statelier form, + A fairer cheek than mine, + Her heart cannot so well and warm, + Respond each throb of thine." + + Her words were gentle, but their tone + Was sad as sorrow's sigh,-- + A tear-drop trembled in his own + As he sought her downcast eye. + A chord was struck within his breast + That long untouched had lain, + Old memories started from their rest,-- + The maid was loved again. + + Stanzas. + + On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul, + Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneath + Its many griefs, and spurning faith's control, + Pants with an earnest longing for the death + Which would for ever close its dark career, + With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier; + When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life, + First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast, + And the heart sickens with the bootless strife + That wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest; + Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress, + Should strike it into utter nothingness. + + Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come, + The mind will wrestle with the mystery + That clouds its being! from its clay-made home, + Its dwelling of a moment, it will flee + Into the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN, + In its vain searchings for th' eternal throne + Of that Omnipotence which gave it birth, + And, giving it a nature which might suit + A seraph, bound its destiny to earth! + And a few years, in which to eat the fruit + Of life's strange tree, so bitter at its core, + Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and--what more? + + Whence came we? whither go we? All is still + And voiceless in the past! A veil is drawn + Across the future! by life's mystic rill + We sit and ponder, watching for the dawn + Of some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought, + By which our nature's secret shall be taught! + Why sorrow is our element--why sin + Is native in us--by what curse we bear + An ever aching, crushing void within + Our secret souls! and why the little share + Of happiness that mingles with our fate, + Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1 + + Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turn + To ashes on our lips! illusive lights + That cast a moment's brightness while they burn, + Then die, and leave a darkness which affrights + Our spirits with its thrice redoubled gloom, + Making the sky a pall--the earth a tomb! + And yet these are the all of life for which + 'Tis worth the wearing of its chain to know, + Wealth, fame, and power are but toys! the rich, + The high and mighty, with the base and low, + Alike before the reaper Death must fall,-- + So be it! in the grave is rest for all. + + Stanzas. + + When the leaf is on the tree, + And the bird is in the bower, + And the butterfly and bee, + Bear its treasures from the flower; + When the fields put on the sheen, + That to young-eyed Spring belongs; + When the groves and forests green, + Echo with a thousand songs; + + When wild Beauty wanders forth, + Giving, with no stinted care, + All her loveliness to earth, + All her sweetness to the air: + Then the heart, with gladness stirred, + Mindful of its griefs no more, + Mounts and carols, like a bird + When the pearly shower is o'er! + + But the summer's sunny hours, + As we count them, pass away; + And its fairest fruits and flowers, + Are but food for stern decay. + Then with wailings, deep and loud, + Like the sea's in its unrest, + Winter spreads his icy shroud, + O'er the bare earth's frozen breast. + + Thus the spirit's early gladness, + Sorrow chills or time removes; + And the soul, in tears and sadness, + Mourns its perished joys and loves. + Hope will lose its trusting boldness, + One by one its beams depart, + And Despair, with icy, coldness, + Winds its mantle round the heart. + + + + +AFTER WITNESSING A DEATH-SCENE. + + Press close your lips, + And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here! + Mark ye not how across that eye so clear, + Steals his eclipse? + + A moment more, + And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease, + Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release, + And all be o'er! + + Hush! Seal ye up + Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken + Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken + Grief's bitter cup. + + Ye know the dead + Are they who rest secure from care and strife,-- + That they who walk the thorny way of life, + Have tears to shed. + + Ye know her pray'r, + Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,-- + Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast, + Could peace dwell there? + + A tale soon told, + Is of her life the story; she had loved, + And he who won her heart to love, had proved + Heartless and cold. + + Lay her to rest, + Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew; + For these should shine and fall where lies so true + And fond a breast! + + A full release + From every pang is given to the dead,-- + So on the stone ye place above her head, + Write only "Peace."* + + When Spring comes back, + With music on her lips,--joy in her eye,-- + Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,-- + Flow'rs in her track-- + + Then come ye here, + And musing from the busy world apart, + Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart, + Sweet Pity's tear. + +* The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was written in +that one word, "Peace." It seemed like the last sigh of a departing +spirit, over the clay which it was about to abandon for ever. + + + + +LOVE AND FANCY. + + "Whenever, amid bow'rs of myrtle, + Love, summer-tressed and vernal-eyed, + At morn or eve is seen to wander, + A dark-haired girl is at his side." + De La Hogue. + + One morn, just as day in the far east was breaking, + Young Love, who all night had been roving about, + A charming siesta was quietly taking, + His strength, by his rambles, completely worn out. + + Round his brow a wreath, woven of every flower + That springs from the hillside, or valley, was bound; + In his hand was a rose he had stol'n from some bower, + While his bow and his quiver lay near on the ground. + + Wild Fancy just came from her kingdom of dreams, + The breath of the opening day to enjoy, + And to catch the warm kiss of its first golden beams + On her cheek, caught a glimpse of the slumbering boy! + + With a light, noiseless step she drew near to the sleeper, + And gazed till her snowy-breast heaved a soft sigh; + Then she bade sleep's dull god bring a sounder and deeper + And heavier trance for Love's beautiful eye. + + Then back to her shadowy kingdom she flow, + And called up the bright mystic forms she has there; + And filling an urn from a fountain of dew, + She bade them all straight to Love's couch-side repair. + + They came, and stood round, as her hand, o'er his pillow, + From a chalice of pearl, poured its magical stream: + While his red rosy lips, that now sighed like a billow + At play with the breeze, told how sweet was his dream. + + He dreamed that he sat on a shining throne, wrought + Of the purest of gold that the earth could supply, + While a trio of beautiful maids, who each brought + A gift for his shrine, in succession past by. + + First Fame, with the step and the glance of a queen, + Came up, and before him bent down her proud knee, + And held up a garland, whereon played the sheen + Of the beams which insure immortality! + + Next Wealth, the stern mistress of men, for whose smile + They toil like the galley slave,--brought in her hand + The fair gems of many an ocean isle, + And the diamonds of many a far off land. + + And Beauty came too, with her blue, laughing eye, + Her fair flowing locks, and her soft rosy cheek, + And red lips, whose sweet smile told silently + The tale which they seemed ashamed to speak. + + 'Neath the shade of a palm branch a fourth one stood by, + With locks like in hue to the tresses of Night, + With a pale, pensive brow, and a dark dreamy eye, + Where the soul of sweet softness lay gleaming in light! + + It was Fancy: Love gazed, and his eager eye shone + With a lustre of feeling, deep, fervent, and sweet; + And he thought it were better to give up his throne + For a place, on his knees, at the coy maiden's feet. + + And from that bright hour, through calm and through storm, + Through the sunlight of summer, and winter's dark reign, + These twain have been bound by ties, tender and warm, + Which ne'er through all time shall be severed again. + + And ever where Love weaves his fond witchery, + Will Fancy the aid of her brightness bestow, + And give the loved object, whatever it be, + A purer, a dearer, a heavenlier glow! + + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM + + 'Tis not in youth, when life is new, when but to live is sweet, + When Pleasure strews her starlike flow'rs beneath our careless feet, + When Hope, that has not been deferred, first waves its golden wings, + And crowds the distant future with a thousand lovely things;-- + + When if a transient grief o'ershades the spirit for a while, + The momentary tear that falls is followed by a smile; + Or if a pensive mood, at times, across the bosom steals, + It scarcely sighs, so gentle is the pensiveness it feels + + It is not then the, restless soul will seek for one with whom + To share whatever lot it bears, its gladness or its gloom,-- + Some trusting, tried, and gentle heart, some true and faithful breast, + Whereon its pinions it may fold, and claim a place of rest. + + But oh! when comes the icy chill that freezes o'er the heart, + When, one by one, the joys we shared, the hopes we held, depart; + When friends, like autumn's withered leaves, have fallen by our side, + And life, so pleasant once, becomes a desert wild and wide;-- + + As for her olive branch the dove swept o'er the sullen wave, + That rolled above the olden world--its death-robe and its grave!-- + So will the spirit search the earth for some kind, gentle one, + With it to share her destiny, and make it all her own! + + + + +TO A LADY. + + Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church. + + At night, in visions, when my soul drew near + The shadowy confines of the spirit land, + Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear, + Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand; + And forms of light, too, more divinely fair + Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn, + On wings that made sweet music in the air, + Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne, + And, filled with joy unutterable, I + Have deemed myself a born child of the sky. + + And often, too, at sunset's magic hour, + When musing by some solitary stream, + While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r, + And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream: + Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth, + Have whispered words which I may not repeat,-- + But Thought or Fancy ne'er have given birth + To form and voice like thine,--so fair and sweet! + Nor have I found them when my spirit's flight + Had borne me to the far shores of delight. + + Above the murmurs of an hundred lips, + They rose, those silvery tones of praise and pray'r, + Soft as the light breeze, when Aurora trips + The earth, and, lighting up the darkened air, + Carols her greetings to the waking flow'rs! + They fell upon my heart like summer rain + Upon the thirsting fields,--and earlier hours, + When I too breathed th' adoring pray'r and strain, + Came back once more; the present was beguiled + Of half its gloom, and my worn spirit smiled. + + Pray, lady, that the sad, soul-searing blight, + Which comes upon us when we tread the ways + Of sin, may not be suffered to alight + On thy pure spirit in its youthful days; + Or like the fruitage of the Dead Sea shore, + Tho' outward bloom and freshness thou may'st be, + Stern bitterness and death will gnaw thy core, + And thou wilt be a heart-scathed thing like me, + Bearing the weight of many years, ere thou + Hast lost youth's rosy cheek and lineless brow. + + + + +IMPROMPTU, + On The Reception Of A Letter. + + I would love to have thee near me, + But when I think how drear + Is each hope that used to cheer me, + I cease to wish thee here. + + I know that thou, wouldst not shrink from + The storms that burst on me, + But the bitter chalice I drink from, + I will not pass to thee. + + I would share the world with thee, were it + With all its pleasures mine, + But the sorrows which I inherit, + I never will make thine! + + + + +THE OLD MAN AND THE BOY. + + "Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream." + Campbell. + + Father, I have dreamed a dream, + When the rosy morning hour + Poured its light on field and stream, + Kindling nature with its pow'r;-- + + O'er the meadow's dewy breast, + I had chased a butterfly, + Tempted by its gaudy vest, + Still my vain pursuit to ply,-- + + Till my limbs were weary grown, + With the distance I had strayed, + Then to rest I laid me down, + Where a beech tree cast its shade, + + Soon a heaviness came o'er me, + And a deep sleep sealed my eyes; + And a vision past before me, + Full of changing phantasies. + + First I stood beside a bower, + Green as summer bow'r could be; + Vine and fruit, and leaf and flower, + Mixed to weave its canopy. + + And within reclined a form, + As embodied moonlight fair, + With a soft cheek, fresh and warm, + Deep blue eye and sunny hair. + + By her side a goblet stood, + Such as bacchanalians brim; + High the rich grape's crimson blood, + Sparkled o'er its gilded rim. + + As I gazed, she bowed her head, + With a gay and graceful move, + And in words of music said, + "Drink, and learn the lore of love!" + + Next I stood beside a mountain, + Of majestic form and height; + Cliff and crag, and glen and fountain, + Mingled to make up its might. + + On its lofty brow were growing + Flowers never chilled by gloom, + For the sky above them glowing, + Dyed them with a deathless bloom. + + And I saw the crystal dome, + Wondrous in its majesty, + Where earth's great ones find a home, + When their spirits are set free. + + By its portals, I espied + One who kept the courts within; + High he waved a wreath and cried, + "Come up hither,--strive and win!" + + Then my vision changed again: + In a fairy-coloured shell, + O'er the wide sea's pathless plain, + I was speeding, fast and well. + + Suddenly, beneath its prow, + Parted were the azure waves, + And I saw where, far below, + Yawn the vast deep's secret caves. + + Where the Syren sings her song, + To old Ocean's sons and daughters; + And the mermaids dance along, + To the music of the waters. + + Where the coral forest o'er, + Storm or tempest ne'er is driven + And the gems that strew its floor, + Sparkle like the stars in heaven. + + Treasures, such as never eye + Of the earth has looked upon, + Gold and pearls of many a dye, + There in rich profusion shone. + + And a voice came to my ear, + Saying, in a stern, cold tone, + Such as chills the heart with fear, + "Seize and make the prize thine own." + + Then across a clouded wild, + Lone and drear and desolate, + Where no cheerful cottage smiled, + I pursued the steps of fate. + + Ever bearing in my breast, + Thoughts almost to madness wrought; + Ever, ever seeking rest, + Never finding what I Sought-- + + Till I gave my wanderings o'er, + By a black and icy stream,-- + Deep I plunged and knew no more:-- + Father, read me now my dream. + + The old man bowed his head, + And pressed his thin hand to his withered brow, + As if he struggled with some rising thought + Which should have kept its place in memory's urn + Till he had cast the shadow from his soul, + Which for a while had bound it in a spell + Born of the bygone years,--then thus he spoke: + + Now listen, boy, and I will show to thee + The import of thy vision,--I will tell + Thee what its scenes and shapes of mystery + Foreshadow of the future,--for full well + I know the wizard lore, whose witchery + Binds e'en the time to come in its wild spell! + And from approaching years a knowledge wrings + Of what they bear upon their viewless wings. + + Along life's weary way of pain and care, + From earliest infancy to eldest age, + Forms, viewless as the soft-breathed summer air, + Attend man's footsteps in his pilgrimage; + And if his destiny be dark or fair, + If Pleasure gilds, or Sorrow blots the page + Whereon is traced his history, still his ear + Will ever catch their warning voices near. + + And they--those guardian ones, who, while thy sleep + Hung o'er thee like a curtain, came around + And fanned thee till thy slumber grew more deep,-- + Flung o'er thy rest, so perfect and profound, + A dream whose mem'ry thou shouldst ever keep + Bound to thy spirit, for altho' it wound, + Thy young heart now, perchance, in after years, + 'Twill save thee much of toil, and many tears. + + It was a dream of life: of boyhood's strong + And soul-consuming yearnings after love! + His eager search to find, amid the throng, + Some heart to give him thought for thought--to move + And mingle with his own, as twines the song + From Beauty's lyre and lips! to know and prove + The dearest joy to care-cursed mortals given, + The one with least of earth, and most of heaven + + Of manhood's ceaseless strivings after fame,-- + The veriest phantom of all phantasies-- + For which he wields the sword, or lights the flame + Whose red glare mocks a nation's agonies,-- + Or by his star-outwatching taper, plies + His pen or pencil, to gain--what? a name, + A passing sound--an echo--a mere breath, + Which he, vain fool, dreams mightier than death! + + And of a later period, when the soul + Forsakes its high resolves and wild desires, + When stern Ambition can no more control, + And Love has shrouded o'er its smothered fires; + When Expectation ceases to console, + And Hope, the last kind comforter, expires; + And Avarice, monster of the gilded vest, + Creeps in and occupies the vacant breast. + + And then the last sad scene: The sick heart, sore + And fainting from its wounds--the palsied limb-- + The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore-- + The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim-- + The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more-- + The last dregs dripping slowly from the brim + Of life's drained cup,--behind all gloom, before + A deep, dark gulf--we plunge, and all is o'er! + + + + +ACLE AT THE GRAVE OF NERO. + +It is a circumstance connected with the history of Nero, that every +spring and summer, for many years after his death, fresh and beautiful +flowers were nightly scattered upon his grave by some unknown hand. + +Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, named +Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, whither he had +gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in the Nemean, Isthinian, +and Floral games, celebrated there; and whence he returned conqueror in +the Palaestra, the chariot race, and the song; bearing with him, like +Jason of old, a second Medea, divine in form and feature as the first, +and who like her had left father, friends, and country, to follow a +stranger. + +Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, had not +cut him off from all human affection; and those flowers were doubtless +the tribute of that young girl's holy and enduring love! + + Whose name is on yon lettered stone? whose ashes rest beneath? + That thus you come with flowers to deck the mournful home of death; + And thou--why darkens so thy brow with grief's untimely gloom? + Thou art fitter for a bride than for a watcher by the tomb! + + "It is the name of one whose deeds made men grow pale with fear, + And Nero's, stranger, is the dust that lies sepulchred here; + That name may be a word of harsh and boding sound to thee, + But oh! it has a more than mortal melody for me! + + "And I,--my heart has grown to age in girlhood's fleeting years, + And has one only task--to bathe its buried love in tears; + The all of life that yet remains to me is but its breath; + Then tell me, is it meet that I should seek the bridal wreath?" + + But maiden, he of whom you speak was of a savage mood, + That took its joy alone in scenes, of carnage, tears and blood; + His dark, wild spirit bore the stain of crime's most loathsome hue, + And love is for the high of soul--the gentle and the true. + + "The voice that taught an abject world to tremble at its words, + To me was mild and musical, and mellow as a bird's-- + A bird's--that couched among the green, broad branches of the date, + Tells, in its silvery songs, its gushing gladness to its mate. + + "I saw him first beside the sea; near to ray father's home, + When like an ocean deity he bounded from the foam; + Ev'n then a glory seemed to breathe around him as he trod, + And my haughty soul was bowed, as in the presence of a God. + + I knew not, till my heart was his, the darkness of his own, + Nor dreamed that he who knelt to me was master of a throne! + And when the fearful knowledge came, its coming was in vain,-- + I had forsaken all for him, and would do so again." + + Is love the offspring of the will? or is it, like a flower, + So frail that it may fade and be forgotten in an hour? + No, no! it springs unbidden where the heart's deep fountains play, + And cherished by their hallowed dew, it cannot pass away! + + + + +THE VENETIAN GIRL'S EVENING SONG. + + Unmoor the skiff,--unmoor the skiff,-- + The night wind's sigh is on the air, + And o'er the highest Alpine cliff, + The pale moon rises, broad and clear. + The murmuring waves are tranquil now, + And on their breast each twinkling star + With which Night gems her dusky brow, + Flings its mild radiance from afar. + + Put off upon the deep blue sea, + And leave the banquet and the ball; + For solitude, when shared with thee, + Is dearer than the carnival. + And in my heart are thoughts of love, + Such thoughts as lips should only breathe, + When the bright stars keep watch above, + And the calm waters sleep beneath! + + The tale I have for thee, perchance, + May to thine eye anew impart + The long-lost gladness of its glance, + And soothe the sorrows of thy heart; + Come, I will sing for thee again, + The songs which once our mothers sung, + Ere tyranny its galling chain + On them, and those they loved, had hung. + + Thou'rt sad; thou say'st that in the halls + Which echoed once our father's tread, + The stranger's idle footstep falls, + With sound that might awake the dead! + The mighty dead! whose dust around + An atmosphere of reverence sheds; + If aught of earthly voice or sound, + Might reach them in their marble beds. + + That she to whom the deep gave birth,-- + Fair Venice! to whose queenly stores + The wealth and beauty of the earth + Were wafted from an hundred shores! + Now on her wave-girt site, forlorn, + Sits shrouded in affliction's night,-- + The object of the tyrant's scorn, + Sad monument of fallen might. + + Well, tho' in her deserted halls + The fire on Freedom's shrine is dead, + Tho' o'er her darkened, crumbling walls, + Stern Desolation's pall is spread; + Is not the second better part, + To that which rends the despot's chain, + To wear it with a dauntless heart, + To feel yet shrink not from its pain? + + Then let the creeping ivy twine + Its wreaths about each ruined arch, + Till Time shall crush them in the brine, + Beneath its all-triumphant march! + Then let the swelling waters close + Above the sea-child's sinking frame, + And hide for ever from her foes, + Each trace and vestige of her shame. + + Shall we at last less calmly sleep, + When in the narrow death-house pent, + Because the bosom of the deep + Shall be our only monument? + No! by the waste of waters bid, + Our tombs as well shall keep their trust, + As tho' a marble pyramid + Were piled above our mangled dust! + +Written in the National Gallery, at the city of Washington, on looking +at a Mummy, supposed to have belonged to a race extinct before the +occupation of the Western Continent by the people in whose possession +the Europeans found it. + + Sole and mysterious relic of a race + That long has ceased to be, whose very name, + Time, ever bearing on with steady pace, + Has swept away from earth, leaving thy frame, + Darkened by thirty centuries, to claim, + Among the records of the things that were, + Its place,--Tradition has forgot thee--Fame, + If ever fame was thine, has ceased to bear + Her record of thee,--say, what dost thou here? + + Three thousand years ago a mother's arms + Were wrapped about that dark and ghastly form, + And all the loveliness of childhood's charms + Glowed on that cheek, with life then flushed and warm; + Say, what preserved thee from the hungry worm + That haunts with gnawing tooth the gloomy bed + Spread for the lifeless? Tell what could disarm + Decay of half its power, and while it fed + On empires--races--make it spare the dead! + + How strange to contemplate the wondrous story, + When those deep sunken eyes first saw the light, + Lost Babylon was in her midday glory,-- + Upon her pride and power had fall'n no blight; + And Tyre, the ancient mariner's delight, + Whose merchantmen were princes, and whose name + Was theme of praise to all, has left her site + To utter barren nakedness and shame,-- + Yet thou, amid all change, art still the same. + + And she who, by the "yellow Tiber's" side, + Sits wrapped in her dark veil of widowhood, + With scarce a glimmer of her ancient pride, + To cheer the gloom of that deep solitude + Which o'er the seat of vanquished pow'r doth brood, + Since thou wast born has seen her glories rise, + Burn, and expire! quenched by the streams of blood + Which her slaves drew from her own veins, the price + Of usurpation, proud Ambition's sacrifice! + + And darker in her fate, and sadder still, + The sacred city of the minstrel king, + That proudly sat on Zion's holy hill, + The wonder of the world! Destruction's wing + Hath from her swept each fair and goodly thing; + Her palaces and temples! where are they? + Her walls and marble tow'rs lie mouldering, + Her glory to the spoiler's hand a prey,-- + And yet time spares a portion of thy clay! + + And thou art here amid a stranger race, + To whom these shores four centuries ago, + Tho' now proud Freedom's boasted dwelling-place, + Were all unknown; the wide streams that now flow + Where Cultivation's hand has steered her plough, + Had then but seen the forest huntsman guide + His light canoe across the waves which now + Reflect the snowy sails that waft in pride + The stately ship along their rippling tide. + + Thou art the silent messenger of ages, + Sent back to tread with Time his constant way, + To shame the wisdom of conceited sages, + Whose lore is but a thing of yesterday; + What would their best, their brightest visions weigh + Beside the fearful truths thou couldst reveal? + The secrets of eternity now lay + Unveiled before thee, and for we or weal, + Thy doom is fixed beyond ev'n heaven's repeal. + + I will not ask thee of the mysteries + That lie beyond Death's shadowy vale; but thou + Mayst tell us of the fate the Destinies + Wove for thine earthly sojourn. Was thy brow + Graced with the poet's, hero's garland? How + Dealt Fortune with thee? Did she curse or bless + Thee with her frown or smile? Speak! thou art now + Among the living,--they around thee press. + Still silent? Then thy lot we can but guess. + + Perhaps thou wast a monarch, and hast worn + The sceptre of some real El Dorado! + Perhaps a warrior, and those arms have borne + The foremost shield, and dealt the deadliest blow + That drew the life-blood of a warring foe! + Perhaps thou wor'st the courtier's gilded thrall,-- + Some glittering court's gay, proud papilio! + Perchance a clown, the jester of some hall, + The slave of one man, and the fool of all! + + Oh life! and pride! and honour! come and see + To what a depth your visions tumble down! + Behold your wearer,--who shall say if he + Were monarch, warrior, parasite, or clown! + And ye, who talk of glory and renown, + And call them bright and deathless! and who break + Each dearer tie to grasp fame's gilded crown, + Come, hear instruction from this shadow speak, + And learn how valueless the prize ye seek! + + See where ambition's loftiest flight doth tend, + Behold the doom perhaps of blood-bought fame, + And know that all which earth can give must end, + In dust and ashes, and an empty name! + Ye passions! which defy our pow'r to tame + Or curb your headlong tides, behold your home! + Love! see the breast where thou didst light thy flame! + Immortal spirit! see thy shattered dome! + When shall its hour of renovation come? + + Shall life possess, and beauty deck again + That withered form, and foul and dusky cheek? + Will Death resign his dull and frozen reign, + And the immortal soul return to seek + Her long-deserted dwelling, and to break + The bondage which has held in icy chains + All that was mortal of thee? will she make + Her home in thee, and shall these poor remains + Share with her heaven's pleasures or hell's pains? + + Wonder of wonders! who could look on thee + And afterward survey with curious eye + The mouldering shrines where dupes have bent the knee, + Where superstition, by hypocrisy + Nurtured and fed with tales of mystery, + Has oft with timid footstep trembling trod,-- + All these are worse than nothing; come and see + Where once a deathless soul held its abode,-- + The wrecked and ruined palace of a God! + + Farewell! Not idly has this hour been spent. + Thy silent teachings I may not forget,-- + More deeply, strangely, truly eloquent, + Than all the babbled words which ever yet + Have fall'n from living lips,--they shall be set + With the bright gems which Wisdom loves to keep; + And when my spirit against fate would fret, + My eyes shall turn to thee and cease to weep, + Till I too sleep death's deep and dreamless sleep! + + + + +TO ISABEL. + + Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine + Their breath, for I consume with love's desire,-- + Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine, + And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire; + Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine + Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre + Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art + The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart! + + There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings + The scent of aromatic shrub and tree, + And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings, + Thine odorous breath is wafted over me; + How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings, + And my whole being is absorbed in thee; + And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire + That never, never, never shall expire! + + Eternal--is it not eternal--this + Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain? + Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss + Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain + If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is + To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain + Unsighing, so not parted from thy side, + My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride! + + They try to woo me from thy fond embrace, + To lure me from the light of those dear eyes; + They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase, + I have such fleetness as would win the prize;-- + But all the pomps of circumstance and place, + A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies! + Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be + The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee. + + To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge + Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day, + To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge, + From every ill that lurks along the way! + To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge + With the bright flowrs that never can decay,-- + This were a lot too glorious, too divine, + And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine. + + Now listen, love,--this plan shall rule my life + And thine:--In some remote and sunny dell, + Far from the crowded city's silly strife, + My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell; + Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife, + And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell; + And my sole wished for recompense shall be + My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee. + + Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine, + To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r + Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine; + To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r + Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine, + And bow us, in his worship, every hour; + Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown + As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own. + + Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,-- + Come from the world,--the crowd is not for thee; + Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam + Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;-- + Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem + That such as they are, thou couldst ever be! + Come, for my soul adores thee with a love + As burning as the seraphs feel above. + + +These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed +at Buena Vista. + + Warrior of the youthful brow, + Eager heart and eagle eye! + Pants thy soul for battle now? + Burns thy glance with victory? + Dost thou dream of conflicts done, + Perils past and trophies won? + And a nation's grateful praise + Given to thine after days? + + Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold + As the clay upon it prest; + And in many a slimy fold, + Winds the grave-worm round thy breast. + Thou wilt join the fight no more,-- + Glory's dream with thee is o'er,-- + And alike are now to thee + Greatness and obscurity. + + But an ever sunny sky, + O'er thy place of rest is bending; + And above thy grave, and nigh, + Flowers ever bright are blending. + O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, + Balmily the south wind blows,-- + With the green turf on thy breast, + Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! + + When the alarum first was sounded, + Marshalling in arms the brave, + Forth thy fearless spirit bounded, + To obtain thee--what? A grave! + Fame had whispered in thine ear, + Words the high-souled love to hear,-- + But the ruthless hand of death + From thee snatched the hero's wreath. + + Often will the grief-shade start + O'er thy sister's mood of joy, + Vainly will thy mother's heart + Yearn to greet her absent boy; + Never sister's lip shall press + On thine own its fond caress,-- + Never more a mother's eye + Flash in pride when thou art by! + + Where the orange, bending lowly + With its golden fruit, is swaying; + And the Indian maiden, slowly + By her native stream is straying; + O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, + Balmily the South wind blows,-- + With the green turf on thy breast, + Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! + + + + +A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ. + + Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt + A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt + No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows, + When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes. + + And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest + Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;--'twas strange that a breast, + Which nothing like kindness or pity might move, + Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love. + + Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child + Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild + Was the love that he bore her, it won no return, + And the flame that consumed him was answered with scorn. + + Now the lady is gone with her steed to the plain,-- + Save the falcon and hound there is none in her train; + She needs none to guide, or to guard her from harm + There's no fear in her heart, there is strength in her arm. + + From her white wrist unhooded her falcon she threw, + Her bow like Diana, the huntress, she drew; + And fleet as the fetterless bird swept the sky, + So on her proud steed swept the fair lady by. + + See how her eye sparkles, and how her cheek glows, + As onward so fearless and proudly she goes, + With her locks streaming back like a banner of gold, + Were she not, say, a bride meet for Nimrod(2) of old? + + And he saw her--the chief, from his tower afar-- + As she glanced o'er the earth like some wandering star; + And he swore she should come in that tower to dwell, + Or his soul be a prize to the spirits of hell. + + His war-horse he mounted, and, swift as the shoot + Of the night-gathered meteor, he sped in pursuit,-- + Breathing out, as he went, mad with love and with hate, + Bitter curse upon curse against heaven and fate. + + Urging on his fleet courser with spur and with rein, + He swept o'er the earth as the storm sweeps the plain,-- + And the fair lady knew, by the gleam of his shield, + It was Bohdo, the scourge of the red battle field! + + Then spurred she her steed over valley and hill, + Over rock, marsh and moor, over river and rill, + Yet still her eye sparkled, and still her cheek glowed, + As onward so fleetly and bravely she rode. + + Thus over Thuringia sped she away, + With the speed of the hawk when he darts on his prey,-- + Or an arrow let loose from a warrior's bow, + When it speeds with sure aim to the heart of his foe. + + Then the Hartz, the wild Hartz--the terrific--the proud! + Where the mist-spirit dwells in his palace of cloud! + Where the evil ones gather in envious wrath, + To blight and to blast,--towered up in her path. + + Still her cheek kept its glow, still her eye flashed in pride, + As onward she flew up the steep mountain side; + And fierce as the tempest, and fleet as the wind, + Stern Bohdo, the ruthless, still followed behind. + + To a fearful abyss, whose unhallowed name(3) + By the powers of darkness was given, she came, + And the whirlpool's wild voice, from the dark gulf below, + Came up like the wail of a soul in its we. + + Beyond rose the rocky shelf, barren and bare, + Beneath lay the whirlpool, around her despair, + Behind her came one, sweeping on in the chase, + Whose grasp was more dreaded than death's cold embrace. + + Then she called on the spirits who watch round the brave, + In peril to nerve, to assist and to save, + Closed calmly her eyes, as one sinking in sleep, + And urged her proud steed to the terrible leap! + + A moment it paused on the high precipice, + Then sprang, boldly sprang, o'er the frightful abyss! + And struck its firm hoof in the rock till the sound + Shook the hills, and the sparks flew like lightning around! + + And the foot-print it left has remained to this day, + And no rain-flood or tempest shall wear it away; + She was saved--the brave Emma was saved--but her crown, + From her fair brow unloosed, in the whirlpool sank down. + + On, on came the chief, in his fierceness and wrath, + Nor saw he the wide gulf that yawned in his path,-- + And soon, in the depths of its fathomless tide, + The warrior and war-steed were laid side by side. + + And the mountaineer tells how in sullen despair, + His ghost, imannealed of its sins, lingers there; + Ever watching, pale, silent, untiring, unmoved, + The bright golden crown of the maiden he loved. + + A diver once, lured by the wealth of the prize, + Sought out the deep cave where it lay, and still lies, + And where, chained by a spirit-breathed spell, it shall stay, + Till the whirlpool and mountain alike pass away. + + Twice he rose with the crown, till its gleaming points blazed + On the eyes of the wondering thousands who gazed, + Twice it fell from his grasp, and sank quickly again + To the bed where for years undisturbed it had lain. + + He followed,--this effort the treasure may earn-- + But vainly they watch who await his return; + A red hue of blood tinged the deep waters o'er, + But the diver came up from their dark depths no more. + + +1. Bohdo. This hero, as his character is drawn in the original legend, +or tradition, from which the material of these verses was taken (a +tradition which gives the popular account of the formation of an immense +mark or cavity in a rock, called the "Rosstrappe" or "Horse's +footstep,") is worthy of being enrolled among Odin's Berserker. + +2. Nimrod. "A mighty hunter before the Lord." He built Babylon and +founded that royal line which terminated with the death of Sardanapalus; +whose gentleness and aversion to blood spilling, together with his +passion for his "Ionian Myrrha," cost him an empire, and gained him an +immortality. + +3. "It was named," says the tradition, "The Devil's dancing-place, from +the triumph there of the spirits of hell." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Mazelli, and Other Poems, by George W. 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Sands + + + + +PREFACE + +Under this head, I desire to say a few words upon three subjects, +--my friends, my book, and myself. + +My friends, though not legion in number, have been, in their +efforts in my behalf, disinterested, sincere, and energetic. + +My book: I lay it, as my first offering, at the shrine of my +country's fame. "Would it were worthier." While our soldiers +are first in every field where they meet our enemies, and while +the wisdom of our legislators is justified before all the world, +in the perfection of our beloved institutions, our literature +languishes. This should not be so; for literature, with its +kindred arts, makes the true glory of a nation. We bow in spirit +when Greece is named, not alone because she was the mother of +heroes and lawgivers, but because her hand rocked the cradle of +a literature as enduring as it is beautiful and brilliant, and +cherished in their infancy those arts which eventually repaid her +nursing care in a rich harvest of immortal renown. + +For myself I have little to say. I have not written for fame, and +if my life had been a happy one I should never have written at all. +As it was, I early came to drink of the bitter cup; and sorrow, +whilst it cuts us off from the outer, drives us back upon the inner +world;-- and then the unquiet demon of ceaseless thought is roused, +and the brain becomes "a whirling gulf of phantasy and flame," and +we rave and--write! Yes, write! And men read and talk about genius, +and, God help them! Often envy its unhappy possessors the fatal gift +which lies upon heart and brain like molten lead! Of all who have +gained eminence among men as poets, how few are there of whom it may +not be justly said, "They have come up through much tribulation." + +G. W. S. + + + +CONTENTS + +Mazelli, + Canto I., + Canto II., + Canto III., +The Misanthrope Reclaimed, + Act I., + Act II., + Act III., + Act IV., +Miscellaneous Poems, + + + +Dedication. + +Frederick City, September 7th, 1849. + +Dear Sir,-- + +In humble testimony of my gratitude for your services as a friend, +and my admiration and respect for your character and worth as an +author and a man, permit me to dedicate to you the poem of "Mazelli." + +Your obedient servant, + +George W. Sands. + +To Samuel Tyler, Esq., +Of the Maryland Bar. + + + +MAZELLI + +Canto I. + +I. + +"Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed, + The sultry hour of noon is near, +Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need, + Stay, then, and, taste its sweetness here. +The mountain path which thou hast sped +Is steep, and difficult to tread, +And many a farther step 'twill cost, +Ere thou wilt find another host; +But if thou scorn'st not humble fare, +Such as the pilgrim loves to share,-- +Not luxury's enfeebling spoil, +But bread secured by patient toil-- +Then lend thine ear to my request, +And be the old man's welcome guest. +Thou seest yon aged willow tree, + In all its summer pomp arrayed, +'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me, +My cot is built beneath its shade; +And from its roots clear waters burst +To cool thy lip, and quench thy thirst:-- +I love it, and if harm should, come + To it, I think that I should weep; +'Tis as a guardian of my home, +So faithfully it seems to keep +Its watch above the spot where I +Have lived so long, and mean to die. +Come, pardon me for prating thus, +But age, you know, is garrulous; +And in life's dim decline, we hold +Thrice dear whate'er we loved of old,-- +The stream upon whose banks we played, +The forest through whose shades we strayed, +The spot to which from sober truth +We stole to dream the dreams of youth, +The single star of all Night's zone, +Which we have chosen as our own, +Each has its haunting memory +Of things which never more may be." + +II. + +Thus spake an aged man to one +Who manhood's race had just begun. +His form of manhood's noblest length +Was strung with manhood's stoutest strength, +And burned within his eagle eye +The blaze of tameless energy-- +Not tameless but untamed--for life +Soon breaks the spirit with its strife +And they who in their souls have nursed +The brightest visions, are the first +To learn how Disappointment's blight +Strips life of its illusive light; +How dreams the heart has dearest held +Are ever first to be dispelled; +How hope, and power, and love, and fame, +Are each an idly sounding name, +A phantom, a deceit, a wile, +That woos and dazzles to beguile. +But time had not yet tutored him, +The youth of hardy heart and limb, +Who quickly drew his courser's bit; +For though too haughty to submit, +In strife for mastery with men, + Yet to a prayer, or a caress, + His soul became all gentleness,-- +An infant's hand might lead him then: +So answered he,--"In sooth the way +My steed and I have passed to-day, +Is of such weary, winding length, +As sorely to have tried our strength, +And I will bless the bread and salt +Of him who kindly bids me halt." +Then springing lightly to the ground, +His girth and saddle he unbound, +And turning from the path aside, +The steed and guest, the host and guide, +Sought where the old man's friendly door +Stood ever open to the poor: +The poor--for seldom came the great, +Or rich, the apers of their state, +That simple, rude abode to see, +Or claim its hospitality. + +III. + +From where the hermit's cottage stood, + Beneath its huge old guardian tree, + The gazer's wand'ring eye might see, +Where, in its maze of field and wood, +And stretching many a league away, +A broad and smiling valley lay:-- +Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair, +As if Death had not entered there; +As if its flowers, so bright of bloom, + Its birds, so gay of song and wing, +Would never lose their soft perfume, + Would never, never cease to sing. +Fat flocks were in its glens at rest, +Pure waters wandered o'er its breast, +The sky was clear, the winds were still, +Rich harvests grew on every hill, +The sun in mid-day glory smiled, +And nature slumbered as a child. + +IV. + +And now, their rustic banquet done, +And sheltered from the noontide sun +By the old willow's pleasant shade, +The guest and host the scene surveyed; +Marked how the mountain's mighty base +The valley's course was seen to trace; +Marked how its graceful azure crest +Against the sky's blue arch was pressed, +And how its long and rocky chain +Was parted suddenly in twain, +Where through a chasm, wide and deep, +Potomac's rapid waters sweep, +While rocks that press the mountain's brow, +Nod o'er his waves far, far below;(1) +Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze, +Threw back the sun's meridian rays, +And, flashing as they rolled along, +Seemed all alive with light and song; +Marked how green bower and garden showed +Where rose the husbandman's abode, +And how the village walls were seen +To glimmer with a silvery sheen, +Such as the Spaniard saw, of yore, + Hang over Tenuchtitlan's walls, +When maddened with the lust of gore, + He came to desecrate her halls; +To fire her temples, towers, and thrones, +And turn her songs of peace to groans. +They gazed, till from the hermit's eye +A tear stole slow and silently; +A tear, which Memory's hand had taken + From a deep fountain long congealed; +A tear, which showed how strongly shaken + The heart must be, which thus revealed, +Through time's dim shadows, gathering fast, +Its recollections of the past; +Then, as a sigh escaped his breast, +Thus spake the hermit to his guest. + +V. + +"Thou seest how fair a scene is here; + It seems as if 'twere planned above, +And fashioned from some happier sphere, + To be the home of peace and love. +Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell + In meek contentment's calm repose, +Will turn an Eden to a hell, + And triumph in his brother's woes! +And passion's lewd and lawless host, +Delight to rave and revel most +Where generous Nature stamps and strews +Her fairest forms, and brightest hues: +And Discord here has lit her brand, + And Hatred nursed her savage brood, +And stern Revenge, with crimson hand, + Has written his foul deeds in blood. +But those who loved and suffered then, +Have given place to other men: +Of all who live, to me alone +The story, of their fate is known; +Give heed, and I will tell it thee, +Tho' mournful must the story be. + +VI. + +I mind as if 'twere yesterday, + The hour when first I stood beside + The margin of yon rushing tide, +And watched its wild waves in their play; +These locks that now are thin and gray, +Then clustered thick and dark as thine, +And few had strength of arm like mine. +Thou seest how many a furrow now +Time's hand hath ploughed athwart my brow: +Well, then it was without a line;-- +And I had other treasures too, + Of which 'tis useless now to vaunt; +Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true; + A heart, that danger could not daunt; +A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred; +And hope that had not been deferred. +I cannot count how many years +Have since gone by, but toil and tears, +And the lone heart's deep agony, +I feel have sadly altered me;-- +Yet mourn I not the change, for those +I loved or scorned, my friends or foes, +Have fallen and faded, one by one, + As time's swift current hurried by, +Till I, of all my kith alone, + Am left to wait, and wish to die. + +VII. + +How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears, +And names his work immortal; years +Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride, +Stern Desolation's brood abide; +The owl within his bower sits, +The lone bat through his chamber flits; +Where bounded by the buoyant throng, +With measured step, and choral song, +The wily serpent winds along; +While the Destroyer stalketh by, +And smiles, as if in mockery. + How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves +His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves, +(Methinks his fittest crown would be +A chaplet from the cypress tree;) +With hope his breast is swelling high, +And brightly beams his laughing eye; +But soon his hopes are mixed with fears, +And soon his smiles are quenched in tears: +Then Disappointment's blighting breath +Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death; +While the Destroyer glideth by, +And smiles, as if in mockery. +How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins + The eager youth to her embrace; +With tameless ardour he begins, + And follows up the bootless race; +Ah! bootless--for, as on he hies, +With equal speed the phantom flies, +Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone, +He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown; +While the Destroyer passeth by, +And smiles, as if in mockery. +Gaze, stranger, on the scene below; +'Tis scarce a century ago, + Since here abode another race, +The men of tomahawk and bow, + The savage sons of war and chase; +Yet where, ah! where, abide they now? +Go search, and see if thou canst find, +One trace which they have left behind, +A single mound, or mossy grave, +That holds the ashes of the brave; +A single lettered stone to say +That they have lived, and passed away. +Men soon will cease to name their name, +Oblivion soon will quench their fame, +And the wild story of their fate, +Will yet be subject of debate, +'Twixt antiquarians sage and able, +Who doubt if it be truth or fable. + +VIII. + +I said I minded well the time, + When first beside yon stream I stood; + Then one interminable wood, +In its unbounded breadth sublime, + And in its loneliness profound, +Spread like a leafy sea around. +To one of foreign land and birth, +Nursed 'mid the loveliest scenes of earth, +But now from home and friends exiled, +Such wilderness were doubly wild;-- +I thought it so, and scarce could I +My tears repress, when standing by +The river's brink, I thought of mine +Own native stream, the glorious Rhine! +For, near to it, with loving eye, +My mother watched my infancy; +Along its banks my childhood strayed, +With its strong waves my boyhood played. +And I could see, in memory, still +My father's cottage on the hill, +With green vines trailing round and o'er +Wall, roof and casement, porch and door: +Yet soon I learned yon stream to bless, +And love the wooded wilderness. +I could not then have told thee how +The change came o'er my heart, but now +I know full well the charm that wrought, +Into my soul, the spell of thought-- +Of tender, pensive thought, which made +Me love the forest's deepest shade, +And listen, with delighted ear, +To the low voice of waters near, +As gliding, gushing, gurgling by, +They utter their sweet minstrelsy. +I scarce need give that _charm_ a name; +Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,-- +Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul, +That has not bowed to its control? + +IX. + +See, where yon towering, rocky ledge, +Hangs jutting o'er the river's edge, +There channelled dark, and dull, and deep, +The lazy, lagging waters sleep; +Thence follow, with thine eagle sight, +A double stone's cast to the right, +Mark where a white-walled cottage stands, +Devised and reared by cunning hands, +A stately pile, and fair to see! + The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace, + Have blent for it a goodly grace; +And yet, it much less pleaseth me, +Than did the simple rustic cot, +Which occupied of yore that spot. +For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew +The fairest flower that e'er drank dew; +A lone exotic of the wood, +The fairy of the solitude, +Who dwelt amid its loneliness +To brighten, beautify, and bless. +The summer sky's serenest blue, +Would best portray her eye's soft hue; +From her white brow were backward rolled +Long curls of mingled light and gold; +The flush upon her cheek of snow, +Had shamed the rose's harsher glow; +And haughty love had, haughtier grown, +To own her breast his fairest throne. +The eye that once behold her, ne'er + Could lose her image;--firm and bright, +All-beautiful, and pure, and clear, +'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight; +Unchangeable, for ever fair, +Above decay, it lingered there! +As it has lingered on mine own, +These many years, till it has grown, +In its mysterious strength, to be +A portion of my soul and me. + +X. + +Not in the peopled solitude + Of cities, does true love belong; +For it is of A thoughtful mood, + And thought abides not with the throng. +Nor is it won by glittering wealth, + By cunning, nor device of art, +Unheralded, by silent stealth, + It wins its way into the heart. +And once the soul has known its dream, +Thenceforth its empire is supreme, +For heart, and brain, and soul, and will, +Are bowed by its subduing thrill. +My love, alas! not born to bless, +Had birth in nature's loneliness; +And held, at first, as a sweet spell, + It grew in strength, till it became +A spirit, which I could not quell,-- + A quenchless--a volcanic flame, +Which, without pause, or time of rest, +Must burn for ever in my breast. +Yet how ecstatically sweet, +Was its first soft tumultuous beat! +I little thought that beat could be +The harbinger of misery; +And daily, when the morning beam +Dawned earliest on wood and stream, +When, from each brake and bush were heard, +The hum of bee, and chirp of bird, +From these, earth's matin songs, my ear +Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear-- +A voice, whose tones the very air +Seemed trembling with delight to bear; +From leafy wood, and misty stream, +From bush, and brake, and morning beam, +Would turn away my wandering eye, +A dearer object to descry, +Till voice so sweet, and form so bright, +Grew part of hearing and of sight. + +X1. + +Yet my fond love I never told, + But kept it, as the miser keeps, + In his rude hut, his hoarded heaps +Of gleaming gems, and glittering gold: +Gloating in secret o'er the prize, +He fears to show to other eyes; +And so passed many months away, +Till once I heard a comrade say:-- +"To-morrow brings her bridal day; +Mazelli leaves the greenwood bower, +Where she has grown its fairest flower, +To bless, with her bright, sunny smile, +A stranger from a distant isle, +Whom love has lured across the sea, + O'er hill and glen, through wood and wild, +Far from his lordly home, to be + Lord of the forest's fairest child." +It was as when a thunder peal + Bursts, crashing from a cloudless sky, +It caused my brain and heart to reel + And throb, with speechless agony: +Yet, when wild Passion's trance was o'er, +And Thought resumed her sway once more, +I breathed a prayer that she might be +Saved from the pangs that tortured me; +That her young heart might never prove +The sting of unrequited love. +My task I then again began, +But ah! how much an altered man,-- +A single hour, a few hot tears, +Had done the wasting work of years. + +XII. + +Nor was it I alone, to whom +Those words had been as words of doom, + By some malicious fiend rehearsed: +Another one was standing by, +With princely port, and piercing eye, +Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume; + I thought his heaving heart would burst, +His labouring bosom's heave and swell, +So strongly, quickly, rose and fell! +A long, bright blade hung at his side, +Its keen and glittering edge he tried; +He bore a bow, and this he drew, +To see if still its spring were true; +But other sign could none be caught, +Of what he suffered, felt, or thought. +And then with firm and haughty stride, +He turned away, and left my side; +I watched him, as with rapid tread, +Along the river's marge he sped, +Till the still twilight's gathering gloom +Hid haughty form, and waving plume. + + +Canto II. + +I. + +He stood where the mountain moss outspread + Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot; +The chestnut boughs above his head, + Hung motionless and mute. +There came not a voice from the wooded hill, + Nor a sound from the shadowy glen, +Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will,(2) + And the waterfall's dash, and now and then, + The night-bird's mournful cry. +Deep silence hung round him; the misty light +Of the young moon silvered the brow of Night, + Whose quiet spirit had flung her spell +O'er the valley's depth, and the mountain's height, + And breathed on the air, till its gentle swell +Arose on the ear like some loved one's call; +And the wide blue sky spread over all + Its starry canopy. +And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, + Whose grave could not give him rest; +So deep was the settled hue of grief, + On his manly front impressed: +Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain, + And his port was erect and high, +Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain, + As the port of a hero who scorns to fly, + When his men have failed in fight; + Who rather a thousand deaths would die, + Than his fame should suffer blight. + +II. + +And who by kith, and who by name, + Is he, that lone, yet haughty one? +By his high brow, and eye of flame, + I guess him old Ottalli's son. +Ottalli! whose proud name was here +In other times, a sound of fear! +The fleet of foot, and strong of hand, +Chief of his tribe, lord of the land, +The forest child, of mind and soul +Too wild and free to brook control! +In chase was none so swift as he, + In battle none so brave and strong; +To friends, all love and constancy,-- + But we to those who wrought him wrong! +His arm would wage avenging strife, +With bow, and spear, and bloody knife, +Till he had taught his foes to feel, +How true his aim, how keen his steel. +Now others hold the sway he held,-- + His day and power have passed away; +His goodly forests all are felled, + And songs of mirth rise, clear and gay, +Chaunted by youthful voices, where +His battle-hymn once filled the air-- +Where blazed the lurid council fire, +The village church erects its spire; +And where the mystic war-dance rang, +With its confused, discordant clang, +While stern, fierce lips, with many a cry +For blood and vengeance, filled the sky, +Mild Mercy, gentle as the dove, +Proclaims her rule of peace and love. +And of his true and faithful clan, +Of child and matron, maid and man, +Of all he loved, survives but one-- +His earliest, and his only son! +That son's sole heritage his fame, +His strength, his likeness, and his name. + +III. + +And thus from varying year to year, +The youthful chief has lingered here; +Chief!--why is he so nobly named? +How many warriors at his call, +By Arcouski's breath inflamed, + Would with him fight, and for him fall? +Of all his father's warrior throng, + Remains not one whose lip could now +Rehearse with him the battle song, + Whose hand could bend the hostile bow. +And yet, no weak, complaining word, +From his stern lip is ever heard; +And his bright eye, so black and clear, +Is never moistened by a tear; +Of quiet mien, and mournful mood, +He lives, a stoic of the wood; +Gliding about from place to place, +With noiseless step, and steady pace, +Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, +Like the lone Genius of the spot. + +IV. + +And this was he who, standing there, +Seemed as an image of Despair, +Which agony's convulsive strife, +Had quickened into breathing life. +The writhing lip, the brow all wet +With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat; +The hand, that with unconscious clasp, +Strained his keen dagger in its grasp; +The eye, that lightened with the blaze +Of frenzied Passion's maniac gaze; +The nervous, shuddering thrill, which came +At intervals along his frame; +The tremulously heaving breast,-- +These signs the inward storm confessed: +Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke +Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke +A soul within, whose haughty will +Would wrestle with immortal ill, +And only quit the strife, when fate +Its being should annihilate. +Silent he stood, until the breeze +Bore from his lips some words like these. + +V. + +"The words I speak are no complaint + And if I breathe out my despair, +It is not that my heart grows faint, + Or shrinks from what 'tis doomed to bear. +Though every sorrow which may shake + Or rend man's heart, should pierce my own, +Their strength united, should not make + My lip breathe one complaining tone. +If I must suffer, it shall be + With a firm heart, a soul elate, +A wordless scorn, which silently + Shall mock the stern decrees of fate. +The weak might bend, the timid shrink, + Until misfortune's storm blew by, +But I, a chieftain's son, should drink + Its proffered cup without a sigh. +And it will scarcely, to my lip, + Seem harsher than yon fountain's flow, +For I have held companionship + With Misery, from my youth till now-- +Have felt, by turns, each pang, each care, +Her hapless sons are doomed, to bear;-- +I caught my mother's parting breath, + When passed she to the spirit land; +And from the fatal field of death, + Where, leading on his fearless band, +With fiery and resistless might, +He fell, though victor in the fight, +Pierced by the arrow of some foe, +I saw my father's spirit go. +And I have seen his warrior men, +From mountain, valley, hill, and glen, +Departing one by one, since then, +As from the dry and withered spray, +The wilted leaves are blown away, +Upon some windy autumn day: +I, only I, am left to be +The last leaf of the blighted tree, +Which the first wind that through the sky +Goes carelessly careering by, +Will, in its wild, unheeded mirth, +Rend from its hold, and dash to earth: +Thus, here alone have I remained, +An outcast, where I should have reigned. + +VI. + +"How shall I to myself alone, +The weakness of my bosom own? +Why, mindful of my fame and pride, +When my brave brethren had died; +Why, with my friendly, ready knife, +Drew I not forth my useless life? +Was it a coward fear of death, +That bade me treasure up my breath? +Or had life yet some genial ray, +That wooed me in its warmth to stay? +Had earth yet one whose smile could stir, +My spirit with deep love for her? +Yes, though within me hope was dead, +And wild Ambition's dreams were fled; +Though o'er my blighted heart, Despair +Desponded, love still nestled there; +Love! how the pale-faced scorner's lip + Would sneer, to hear me name that name; +Yet was it deep within my soul + A secret but consuming flame; +Whose overruling mastership, +Defied slow Reason's dull control! +And felt for one of that vile race, +To whom my tribe had given place; + Was nursed in silence and in shame! +Shame, for the weakness of a heart, + Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow, +Which could bestow its better part + Upon the offspring of a foe! +They, the mean delvers of the soil, +The wielders of the felling axe,-- +Because we will not stoop to toil, + Nor to its burdens bond our backs; +Because we scorn Seduction's wiles, +Her lying words and forged smiles, +They, the foul slaves of lust and gold, +Say that our blood and hearts are cold.(3) +But ere the morrow's dawning light +Has climbed yon eastern craggy height, +One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow, +Are lit with pride and pleasure now, +Shall learn, at point of my true steel, +How much the Red man's heart may feel,-- +How fearlessly he strikes the foe, +When love and vengeance prompt the blow! +Though scorned by him, I know an art +Could stop the beatings of his heart, +Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still!' + A single arrow from my bow, +Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4) + Would in an instant lay him low; +So deadly is the icy chill, +With which the life-blood it congeals, +The wounded warrior scarcely feels +Its fatal touch ere he expire: +But, when Revenge would glut his ire, +He stops not with immediate death +The current of his victim's breath; +With gasp, and intervening pause, +The lifeblood from its source he draws, +Marks, in the crimson stream that flows, +How near life verges to its close,-- +And its last soul-exhaling groan, +To him is music's sweetest tone! +And he, whose fate it is to die, +Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky, +The eye shall see, the arm shall know, +That guides and deals th' avenging blow; +And ere his spirit goes to rest, + Right well his scornful heart shall learn, +How fiercely, in a savage breast, + The flames of love and hate may burn." +He spake, and down the mountain's side, +With quick, impatient step, he hied, +Threading the forest's lonely gloom, +A ruthless minister of doom. + +VII. + +'Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth, + And the mysterious eyes above, + Gazed down with chastened looks of love, +Not, as when first they hymned her birth, +With ardent songs of holy mirth, +But mournfully serene and clear;-- + As on some erring one we gaze, + Whose feet have strayed from wisdom's ways, +But who, in error, still is dear. +Far o'er yon swiftly flowing stream +Fair fell the young moon's silver beam, +And gazing on its restless sheen, +Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien, +Bespoke him of a foreign land, +One born to win, and hold command; +The master mind, the leading one, +Where deeds of manly might were done. +Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came + O'er lip and cheek, o'er eye and brow, + He who beheld, might guess that now +His thoughts were not of wealth and fame: +Whence could that veiling radiance shine, +Save from Affection's holy shrine? +And this was he, who from afar, + Had come to bear away his bride; +And love had been the guiding star, + That lit him o'er the trackless tide; +"To-morrow, on its sunny wing, +My bridal hour soon shall bring; +And those bright orbs which o'er me shed + Such gentle radiance from on high, +Shall shine upon my nuptial bed, + When next they walk along the sky. +0! what are all the pomps of earth, +Of honour, glory, greatness, worth, +Beside the bliss which Love confers +Upon his humblest followers!" +He said, and from the river turned;-- +An eye, that with fierce hatred burned, +Met his, and this reply was made: +"Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade +Ere dawns the coming morrow's sun." +Then, ere the point he could evade, + He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast, +While he, who the foul deed had done +Stood calmly by, and saw him sink +In death, beside the water's brink, +Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood +Pour out, and mingle with the flood; + Then drew his dagger from its rest, +And gazing on its fearful hue, +Said, "Thou hast yet one task to do. +He who, death-wounded, welters there, +Came hither, o'er the deep to bear + Far off from her paternal nest, +The white dove I have watched so long. +The falcon's wing was bold and strong, +Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight; +Strike one more blow, and thou to-night +May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare, +And buried deep the dagger there, +And by his victim's lifeless trunk, +Without a sigh or groan he sunk. + +Canto III. + +I. + +With plumes to which the dewdrops cling, +Wide waves the morn her golden wing; +With countless variegated beams +The empurpled orient glows and gleams; +A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds +The mountain's soaring summit shrouds; +Along the wave the blue mist creeps, + The towering forest trees are stirred +By the low wind that o'er them sweeps, + And with the matin song of bird, + The hum of early bee is heard, +Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn, +The coming of the bright-eyed morn; +And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn, + Her couch the fair Mazelli quits, +And gaily, fleetly as a fawn, + Along the wildwood paths she flits, +Hieing from leafy bower to bower, +Culling from each its bud and flower, +Of brightest hue and sweetest breath, +To weave them in her bridal wreath. +Now, pausing in her way, to hear +The lay of some wild warbler near, +Repaying him, in mocking tone, +With music sweeter than his own; +Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending, + Her image in its waves to see, +With its sweet, gurgled music blending, + A song of tenfold melody; +Now, chasing the gay butterfly, +That o'er her pathway passed her by, +With grace as careless, glee as wild, +As though she were some thoughtless child; +Now, seated on some wayside stone, +With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown, +In silent thoughtfulness, she seems + To hold communion with her heart, +Beguiling fancy with the dreams + That from its Pure recesses start. + +II. + +There is a silent power, that o'er + Our bosoms wields a wizard might, + Restoring bygone years to light, +With the same vivid glow they wore, +Ere time had o'er their features cast +The shadowy shroud that veils the past:-- +To those who walk in wisdom's way, + 'Tis welcome as an angel's smile; +But those who from her counsels stray, + Whose hearts are full of craft and guile, +To them 'tis as a constant goad-- +A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,-- +A silent searcher of the breast, +Which will not let the guilty rest. +In childhood's pleasant -season born, + It haunts us in all after time; +From youth's serene and sunny morn + To manhood's stern meridian prime. +From manhood, till the weight of years, +And life's dull constant toil, and tears, +And passion's ever raging storm, +Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form. +True, youth, of hope and love possessed, +By friends--youth has no foes--caressed, +Finds in the present--happy boy!-- +Enough of gaiety and joy; +And man, whose visionary brain +Begets that idle phantom train +Of shadows--Power, Wealth, and Fame,-- +A scourge--a bubble--and a name-- +So often and so vainly sought-- +Has little time for peaceful thought; +And so they turn not back to gaze, +Where faithful memory displays +Her record of departed days; +But oh! how loves the eye of age, +To move along its pictured page, +To scan and number, o'er and o'er, +The joys that may return no more; +The hopes that, blighted in their bloom, +By disappointment's chilly gloom, +Were given sadly to the tomb; +The loves so wildly once enjoyed, +By time's unsparing hand destroyed; +The bright imaginative dreams, +Portrayed by restless fancy's beams, +By restless fancy's beams portrayed, +Alas! but to delude and fade! +To count these o'er and o'er again +Is age's sole resort from pain. +Then, stranger, marvel not that I + Have claimed so long thy listening ear; +I could not pass in silence by + Themes to my memory so dear, +As those which make my story's close-- + Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes. + +III. + +Ascending from the golden east, +The sun had gained his zenith height, +The guests were gathered to the feast, +Prepared to grace the marriage rite; +The youthful and the old were there, +The rustic swain and bashful fair; +The aged, reverend and gray, +Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay, +Each told, to while the time away, +Some tale of his own wedding day; +The youthful, timorous and shy, +Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye, +That, in its stolen glances, sends +The language Love best, comprehends. +The noontide hour goes by, and yet + The bridegroom tarries--why? and where? +Sure he could not his vows forget, + When she who loves him is so fair! +And then his honour, faith, and pride, +Had bound him to a meaner bride, + If once his promise had been given; +But she, so pure, so far above + The common forms of earthly mould, +So like the incarnate shapes of love, + Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven, + His love for her could ne'er grow cold! +And yet he comes not. Half way now, + From where, at his meridian height, + He pours his fullest, warmest light, +To where, at eve, in his decline, +The day-god sinks into the brine, +When his diurnal task is done, +Descends his ever burning throne, +And still the bridegroom is not, there-- +Say, why yet tarries he, and where? + +IV. + +Within an arbour, rudely reared, +But to the maiden's heart endeared +By every tie that binds the heart, +By hope's, and love's, and memory's art,-- +For it was here he first poured out +In words, the love she could not doubt,-- +Mazelli silent sits apart. +Did ever dreaming devotee, + Whose restless fancy, fond and warm, + Shapes out the bright ideal form +To which he meekly bends the knee, +Conceive of aught so fair as she? +The holiest seraph of the sphere +Most holy, if by chance led here, + Might drink such light from those soft eyes, +That he would hold them far more dear + Than all the treasures of the skies. +Yet o'er her bright and beauteous brow +Shade after shade is passing now, +Like clouds across the pale moon glancing, +As thought on rapid thought advancing, +Thrills through the maiden's trembling breast, +Not doubting, and yet not at rest. +Not doubting! Man may turn away +And scoff at shrines, where yesterday +He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray, +And wealth may lose its charm for him, +And fame's alluring star grow dim, +Devotion, avarice, glory, all +The pageantries of earth may pall; +But love is of a higher birth +Than these, the earth-born things of earth,-- +A spark from the eternal flame, +Like it, eternally the same, +It is not subject to the breath +Of chance or change, of life or death. +And so doubt has no power to blight +Its bloom, or quench its deathless light,-- +A deathless light, a peerless bloom, +That beams and glows beyond the tomb! +Go tell the trusting devotee, +His worship is idolatry; +Say to the searcher after gold, +The prize he seeks is dull and cold; +Assure the toiler after fame, +That, won, 'tis but a worthless name, +A mocking shade, a phantasy,-- +And they, perchance, may list to thee; +But say not to the trusting maid, +Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed,-- +As soon thy words may lull the gale, +As gain her credence to the tale! +And still the bridegroom is not there-- +Oh! why yet tarries he, and where? + +V. + +It was the holy vesper hour, + The time for rest, and peace, and prayer, +When falls the dew, and folds the flower + Its petals, delicate and fair, + Against the chilly evening air; + And yet the bridegroom was not there. +The guests, who lingered through the day, +Had glided, one by one, away, +And then, with pale and pensive ray, + The moon began to climb the sky, +As from the forest, dim and green, +A small and silent band was seen + Emerging slow and solemnly; +With cautious step, and measured tread, +They moved as those who bear the dead; +And by no lip a word was spoke, +Nor other sound the silence broke, +Save when, low, musical, and clear, +The voice of waters passing near, +Was softly wafted to the ear, +And the cool, fanning twilight breeze, +That lightly shook the forest trees, +And crept from leaf to trembling leaf, +Sighed, like to one oppressed with grief. +Why move they with such cautious care? +What precious burden do they bear? +Hush, questioner! the dead are there;-- +The victim of revenge and hate, + Of fierce Ottali's fiery pride, +With that stern minister of fate, + As cold and lifeless by his side. + +VI. + +Still onward, solemnly and slow, +And speaking not a word, they go, +Till pausing in their way before +Mazelli's quiet cottage door, +They gently lay their burden down. + Whence comes that shriek of wild despair + That rises wildly on the air? +Whose is the arm so fondly thrown +Around the cold, unconscious clay, +That cannot its caress repay? +Such wordless wo was in that cry, +Such pain, such hopeless agony, +No soul, excluded from the sky, + Whom unrelenting justice hath + Condemned to bear the second death, +E'er breathed upon the troubled gale +A wilder or a sadder wail;-- +It rose, all other sounds above, +The dirge of peace, and hope, and love! + +VII. + +And day on weary day went by, +And like the drooping autumn leaf, +She faded slow and silently, + In her deep, uncomplaining grief; +For, sick of life's vacuity, + She neither sought nor wished relief. +And daily from her cheek, the glow +Departed, and her virgin brow +Was curtained with a mournful gloom,-- +A shade prophetic, of the tomb; +And her clear eyes, so blue and bright, +Shot forth a keen, unearthly light, +As if the soul that in them lay, +Were weary of its garb of clay, +And prayed to pass from earth away; +Nor was that prayer vain, for ere +The frozen monarch of the year, +Had blighted, with his icy breath, +A single bud in summer's wreath, +They shrouded her, and made her grave, + And laid her down at Lodolph's side; +And by the wide Potomac's wave, +Repose the bridegroom and the bride. + +'Tis said, that, oft at summer midnight, there, +When all is hushed and voiceless, and the air, +Sweet, soothing minstrel of the viewless hand, +Swells rippling through the aged trees, that stand +With their broad boughs above the wave depending, +With the low gurgle of the waters blending +The rustle of their foliage, a light boat, +Bearing two shadowy forms, is seen to float +Adown the stream, without or oar or sail, +To break the wave, or catch the driving gale; +Smoothly and steadily its course is steered, +Until the shadow of yon cliff is neared, +And then, as if some barrier, hid below +The river's breast, had caught its gliding prow, +Awhile, uncertain, o'er its watery bed, +It hangs, then vanishes, and in its stead, +A wan, pale light burns dimly o'er the, wave +That rolls and ripples by Mazelli's grave. + + +Notes To Mazelli + +Note 1. + +"And how its long and rocky chain +Was parted suddenly in twain, +Where through a chasm, wide and deep, +Potomac's rapid waters sweep, +While rocks that press the mountain's brow +Nod O'er his waves far, far below." + +"The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps, +one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very +high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having +ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a +vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a vent also. +In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the +mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. + +"The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion +that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were +formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in +this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge +Mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; +that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this +spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. + +"The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, +the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds +by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. +But the distant finishing which nature has given to this picture, +is of a very different character. It is a true contrast to the +foreground. It is as Placid and delightful as that is wild and +tremendous. + +"For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye, +through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an +infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, +from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach, +and participate of the calm below."--Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. + +Note 2. + +"Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will." + +That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry, +the names they have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will) +sufficiently evidence. Some call it the "Muckawis," others +the "Wish-ton-wish," signifying "the voice of a sigh," and +"the plaint for the lost." Those, who in its native glens at +twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy song, +will know how beautifully appropriate these names are. + +Note 3. + +"They, the foul slaves' of lust and gold, +Say that our blood and hearts are cold." + +It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous +fortitude often displayed by Indians, under the most intense +suffering, is to be accounted for by their insensibility to pain, +resulting, they allege, from a defective nervous organization. From +the absence of a display of gallantry and tenderness between the +sexes, they argue also, in them, the nonexistence of love, and +its kindred passions. This we think unjust, as it robs them of +the honours of a system of education, which is life-long, and whose +sole object is to attain the mastery of all feeling, physical or +mental. The view taken of this subject by Robertson, in his History +of America, to us, seems most accordant with truth. He says: "The +amazing steadiness with which the Americans endure the most exquisite +torments, has induced some authors to suppose that, from the peculiar +feebleness of their frame, their sensibility is not so acute as +that of other people; as women, and persons of a relaxed habit, are +observed to be robust men, whose nerves are more firmly braced. But +the constitution of the Americans is not so different in its texture, +from that of the rest of the human species, as to account for this +diversity in their behaviour. It flows from a principle of honour, +instilled early and cultivated with such care, as to inspire him +in his rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which philosophy +hath endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved and +polished. This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider +as the chief distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of +a warrior. The ideas which influence his conduct, and the passions +which take possession of his heart, are few. They operate of course +with more decisive effect, than when the mind is crowded with a +multiplicity of objects, or distracted by the variety of its +pursuits; and when every motive that acts with any force in forming +the sentiments of a savage, prompts him to suffer with dignity, he +will bear what might seem impossible for human patience to sustain. +But whenever the fortitude of the Americans is not roused to exertion +by their ideas of honour, their feelings of pain are the same with +those of the rest of mankind." + +Note 4. + +"Bathed in the poisonous manchenille." + +The slightest wound from an arrow dipped in the juice of the +Manchenille, causes certain and speedy death. "If they only pierce +the skin, the blood fixes and congeals in a moment, and the strongest +animal falls motionless to the ground."--Robertson's America. + + + +S. L. Sawtelle. + +Dear Sir: + +To you, who have given me friendship in adversity, counsel in +perplexity, and hope in despondency, permit me, as an expression +of my deep and lasting gratitude, to inscribe the "Misanthrope." + +With sentiments of the highest respect, + +Your obt. servt., + +George W. Sands. + +Frederick City, September 1849. + + +Dramatis Personae. +Werner--Misanthrope. +Manuel--a cottager. +Albert--his son. +Rebecca--wife to Manuel. +Rose--his daughter. +Spirits. +An aerial chorus. + + +THE MISANTHRAPE RECLAIMED +A Dramatic Poem + +ACT I. + +A fountain near the summit of a mountain, from which, through a +deep glen, a stream descends to the valley below. A city seen in +the distance. Time, midnight. Werner standing near the fountain. + +Werner (solus). + +Eternal rocks and hills! +Mighty and vast; and you, ye giant oaks, +Whose massy branches have for centuries +Played with the breeze and battled with the storm, +He, who so oft has trod your rugged paths, +And laid him down beneath your shades to rest, +Returns to be your dweller once again. +I sooner far would make your wilds my home, +With nought but your rude eaves to shield me from +The winter's cold or summer's heat, than be +One of the hundred thousand human flies +That swarm within yon filthy city's walls. +Here, I at least may live in solitude, +Free from a forced communion with a race, +Whose presence makes me feel that I am bound, +By nature, to the thing I loathe the most, +Earth's stateliest, proudest, meanest reptile, man! +The beauty of a god adorns his form, +The foulness of a fiend is in his heart; +The viper's, or the scorpion's filthy nest +Nurses a far less deadly, poisonous brood +Than are the hellish lusts, the avarice,-- +The pride--the hate--the double-faced deceits-- +That make his breast their dwelling. +If he be not beneath hell's wish to damn, +Too lost for even fiends to meddle with, +How must they laugh to hear him, in his pride, +Baptize his vices, virtues; making use +Of holy names to designate his crimes; +Giving his lust the sacred name of love; +Calling his avarice a goodly sin, +Care for his household; naming his deceit +Praiseworthy caution; boasting of his hate, +When be no more can cloak it, as a proof +Of strength of mind and honesty of heart. +For all of goodness that remains on earth, +The name of virtue might be banished from it. +Fathers, who waste in shameful riotings +The bread for which their children cry at home; +Mothers, who put aside th' unconscious babe +That they may wrong its father; children, who +Grow old in crime ere they have spent their youth; +These are its habitants. +I cannot brook the thought, that I belong +To their vile race. My sufferings have been great, +And keen enough to prove my immortality; +For dust could not have borne what I have suffered. +My mind has pierced far, far beyond the length +Of mortal vision, and discovered things +Of which men scarcely dream, and paid in pain, +The price of what it learned and bought with pangs +By which a thousand ages were compressed +Into one hour of agony: a power +Which is a terror to possess, and yet +This one thought only irks me. +Methinks the peaceful earth will scarcely give +My dust a resting-place within its bosom, +But cast it forth as if too vile, to mingle +With clay that ne'er has been the slave of sin. +What! other watchers here at this lone hour? + +[An evil spirit enters, singing. + The world is half hidden, + By midnight's dark shadow; + The filly, witch-ridden, + Skims over the meadow; + The house-dog is barking, + The night-owl is hooting, + The glow-worm is sparkling, + The meteor is shooting; + And forms, which lie + So stiff and still, + In their shrouds so chill, + Through the live-long day, + Now burst their clay, + And flit through the sky, + On their dusky pinions: + Hell's dominions + Keep holiday. +Sisters, sisters, wherever your watches + Are kept, fleet hither to me, +Fleet hither, fleet hither, and leave earth's wretches + Alone to their misery. + +[A chorus of evil spirits answer as they enter from different +parts of the mountain. + We come! + Vice needs no assistance, + She meets no resistance, + Virtue's existence + Is only in name; + Drinking and eating, + Intriguing and cheating, + Carousing, completing + Their ruin and shame; + Old age unrepenting, + Manhood unrelenting, + Youth sighing and winning, + Deceiving and sinning, + Deserting, repining, + All men are the same. + Ho! ho! +Earth quakes with the weight of the anguish she bears, +Her plains and her valleys are deluged with tears, +And her sighs, if united, were deeper by far, +Than the thunderbolt's peal, when the clouds are at war. +There is, not a bosom, that bears not within +Its chambers, the blot and the burden of sin; +Not a mind, but in many an hour bath felt +The curse of its nature, the pangs of its guilt. + +These earth-worms! whose sire would have had us to bow +To his dust-moulded Godship! what--what are they now? +In the scale of true goodness, they sink far below +The poor, patient ox, that they yoke to the plough. +Let them revel awhile, in the false glaring light +Of deception, that blindness but seems to make bright; +Let them gather awhile of time's perishing flowers; +The revenge of eternity! This shall be ours! +Ho! ho! + +[They settle near the fountain. The first Spirit addresses them. + +The night is advancing, +Come, let us, dancing +In dewy circles deftly tread; +And while we dance round, +New schemes shall be found, +To ruin the living, and trouble the dead. + +[They form a circle on the margin of the stream, and dance round +singing. + +I. + +Life is but a fleeting day, +Half of which man dreams away; +Night! we follow in thy train-- +Sleep! supreme o'er thee we reign; +Ours the dreams that come when thou +Sit'st upon the unconscious brow; +Reason then deserts her throne, +We then reign, and we alone. + +II. + +Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, +Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, +Love's apple, and when we have found it, +Draw the magic circle round it;(1) +Fearless pluck it, then no charm +That it bears may do us harm; +Place it near the sleeper's head, + It will bring love's visions nigh, +And when the pleasing, dreams are fled, + The waking, pensive maid will sigh, +Till her bosom has possessed, +The form that made her dreams so blest. +And when a maiden finds a lover, +Her happy days are nearly over: +Nature hath unchaste desires, +Love awakes her slumbering fires, +And the bosom that is true in +Love is ever near its ruin; +Passion's pleading melts the frost +Of chilliest hearts, and all is lost: +For, once vice blots a maiden's name, +She soon forgets her maiden shame. + +III. + +Haunt the debauchee with dreams, +Of the victim of his schemes; +Paint her with dishevelled hair, +Streaming eyes, and bosom bare, +And with aspect pale and sad, +As a spectre's from the dead, +Weeping o'er her new-born, child, +Her name reproached, her fame despoiled: +Let her groanings reach his ear, +Pierce his heart, and rouse his fear +Of the retribution given, +To such deeds as his, by Heaven. + +IV. + +Around the drunkard's tattered couch, +Let pale-faced want and misery crouch, +His children shivering o'er the hearth, +Cheered by no sound of social mirth, +Upbraiding, with their timid glances, +The author of their sad mischances; +And she to whom the holy vow +Of the altar bound him, now +With sunken eye, and beauty faded, +Tresses silvered, brow o'ershaded, +Clinging to him fondly still, +With a love that mocks each ill, +Which would vainly strive to tear +Her soul from one who once was dear. + Now haste we, each our task to do, + Ere the starry hours wane through! + +[They fly off, singing as they disappear. + +Ere the Morning's rosy wing, + Has brushed the damp night-shades away, +Ere the birds their matins sing, +Choiring to the new-born day, +Though its bright birth-hour be near, +Many a sigh, and many a tear, +Shall attest the mystic might, +Of those who walk the world by night. + +Werner (solus). + +The ruin of the living! if that be +Your only task, you have a poor employ. +Give man his three score years, and he will make +A wreck, the skill of hell might show forth as +A sample of its handiwork, and then, +Exult at the completeness of its ruin. +The troubling of the dead!--if memory lives +In that far world, to which the spirit hastens, +When she casts off the clay that clogs her wings, +E'en there ye are forestalled, for man will need +No curse, to make his second life a hell, +If be retains the memory of his first. +Had the clear waters of this gurgling brook, +The pow'r to wash time's blots from th' mind's page, +And all earth's mountains were compact of gold, +Her rivers nectar, and her oceans wine, +Her hills all fruitful, and her valleys fresh, +And full of loveliness as Eden was, +Ere sin's sad blight fell on its living bow'rs, +And all were mine, I'd give them but to lay +My weary limbs along this streamlet's bed, +And sleep in full forgetfulness awhile. +But, I forget my task--now let me to it! + +[He takes a vial from his bosom, and flings its contents into the +air, chanting, + +Spirit +Wherever be thy home, +In earth or air, +My message hear, +And fear it. +By the power which I have earned, + To which thy knee has knelt, +By the spell which I have learned, + A spell which thou, hast felt, + I bid thee hither come ! + +[A white cloud appears in the distance, floating up the glen, and +a voice is heard, singing as it approaches, + +I. + +I saw from port a vessel steer, +The skies were clear, the winds were fair, +More swiftly than the hunted deer, +Upon her snowy wings of air, +She flew along the silv'ry water, +As fearlessly as if some sprite, +Familiar with the deep, had taught her, +A spell by which to rule the might +Of winds and waves, when met to try +Their strength, up midway in the sky. + +II. + +Along her trackless watery way, +With unabated speed she flew, +Still gay and careless, till the day +Waned past: night came: the heavens grew +Black, dread and threat'ning. Then the storm +Came forth in its devouring wrath; +Before it fled Fear's pallid form; +Destruction followed in its path; +It passed: the morning came: in vain, +I look for that lost bark again. + +III. + +Far down beneath the deep blue waves, +Within some merman's coral hall, +Her fated crew have found their graves; +Above them, for their burial pall, +The mermaids spread their flowing tresses; +The waters chant their requiem; +From many an eyelid, Pity presses +Her tender, dewy tears for them: +The natives of the ocean weep, +To view them sleeping death's pale sleep. + +IV. + +Thou, mortal, wast the bark I saw; +The waters, were the sea of life; +And thou, alas! too well dost know, +What storms were imaged in the strife +Of winds and waves. The hopes of youth, +Thou, in that bark's lost crew, may'st see,-- +All buried now within that smooth, +Vast, boundless deep,--eternity:-- +And I, a spirit though I be, +Can pity still, and weep for thee. + +[The cloud settles near the fountain, and, unclosing, discovers +a beautiful form looking steadily at Werner. + +WERNER (addressing it). + +How beautiful! +If intercourse between all living worlds, +Had not been barr'd by Him who gave them life, +I should believe thou wert the guardian spirit, +Of that which men have named the Queen of Night. +Like her, thou art majestic, pale and sad, +And of a tender beauty: those bright curls +That press thy brow, and cling about thy neck, +Seem made of sunbeams, caught upon their way +To earth, by some creative hand, and woven +Into a fairy web, of light and life, +Conscious of its high source, and proud to be +A part of aught so beautiful as thou. +I have seen many full, bright mortal eyes, +That were a labyrinth of witching charms, +In which the heart of him who looked was lost; +But none like thine; their light is not of earth; +Their loveliness not like what man calls lovely. +Beside the smoothness of thy brow and cheek, +The lily's lip were rough; each of thy limbs, +Is, in itself, a being and a beauty. +If that the orb thou didst inhabit, ere +Thou wert a portion of eternity, +Was worthy of such dwellers, oh! how fair +And glorious, must have been its fields and bow'rs! +How clear its streams! how pure and fresh its airs! +How mellow were its fruits! how bright its flow'rs! +How strong and brave the beings, fit to share +It with thee! 'Tis most strange that He, whose hand +Fashions such wondrous things, should take delight +In striking them to nothingness again! +Perchance the author of all evil had +Invaded it, and made it quite unfit +To be a part of God's great universe. +And yet thou lookest as if thou wert beyond +The power of temptation to assail. +Hast thou too sinned? + +Spirit. + +I have lived as thou livest, died as thou +Wilt have to die, and am what thou shalt be. + +Werner + + I have not questioned thee of life or death, +Nor of the state which shall succeed them both; +I care not for the first, nor fear the second; +The last I leave to Him who gave to man +Eternity for his inheritance. + But I would know if the unceasing war, +Which good and evil wage upon the earth, +Has reached beyond, its confines. + +Spirit. + + Have I not answered thee? +The Begetter of worlds, stars, suns, and systems! +The Father of Creation! the Bridegroom +Of the Spirit! hath He not written that +Death has dominion only over sin? +And thou would'st know if other worlds have felt +The curse that fell upon, and blighted thine. +Poor simple child of clay! no doubt thou know'st +The story of the Eden of thy sire, +And think'st that there, in its fresh, stainless breast, +The baleful seeds of evil first were sown, +Which since have spread so fearfully abroad,-- +When the sad doom, that came on him and his, +Was but the spray, cast from the wave of fate, +Which just then reached thy newly finished orb. +Where it first started--whither tends its course-- +Where it shall stop--how many wrecks of worlds-- +Once fairer far than thine was at its birth-- +Shall strew its desolate way,--is not for things +Brought forth from dust to know. +What wouldst thou of me? + +Werner. + + The sole remaining good, if good it be, +That yet is mine to share. I have tried all +That earthly hope holds out to satisfy +The longings of man's nature. I have loved, +And made an idol of the thing I loved, +And worshipped it with all my soul's intensity; +And, for awhile, the frenzy of my dream +Shut out all other thoughts. But it was short; +Death plucked my lovely flower from my grasp, +And then, the icy chill of desolation +Came, like a snowy avalanche, upon +My heart, and froze the fountains of its feeling. + I was ambitious. I have striven for, +And worn, the gaudiest wreath of fame, and when +I would have placed it on my brow, it grew +A mountain in its weight. I courted much +The notice of the world, and when men praised, +The very breath that bore their praise to me, +Seemed clogged with pestilence. + +Wealth, too, I coveted, +And heaped its shining dust in hoards around me, +And yet it was but dust, as barren of +Enjoyment as the ground we tread upon. +I clad myself in purple--heaped my board +With all the fairest, sweetest fruits of earth, +And filled my golden goblets with bright juice, +Pressed from the goodliest grapes, and made my couch +Of down, and yet, I was most wretched still. +My garments were but cumbersome; my couch +Could give no rest, and e'en my generous wines +Could not remove the crushing weight that sat, +Nightmare-like, on my heart, until it grew +A palpable and keenly aching pang. + There is, one path which yet remains untrod; +To be my guide in it, I called thee hither,-- +'Tis that of knowledge. + +Spirit. + +The same +In which the mother of thy race was lost, +With e'en a wiser, mightier guide than I. +She thirsted, too, for knowledge, and she gave +Her innocence--her home in Paradise-- +The happiness of him--who shared her lot-- +To know--what? That her wn rebellious hand +Had raised the flood-gates of a sea of crime, +Which would for ever pour its bitter waves +Upon the helpless unprotected race, +Which her rash deed had ruined. +Think of the sighs--the groans--the floods of tears-- +The woes--too deep for these--which have no end, +Save but in heart-breaks! Think upon the toil-- +The sweat--the pain--the strife--the crime--the blood-- +The myriads of souls with which this one +Sad lesson was obtained! whose price is yet +Not fully paid, nor shall be so, until +The last poor son of earth mingles with dust! +Dost thou not fear to tread a path like this? + +Werner. + +I have no fear; +It is so long since I have felt its thrill +That 'twere a pleasure now to feel it. + +Spirit. + +What wouldst thou know? +Thou art familiar with all earthly lore. +More: Thou hast gained, and wield'st a power, to which +The rulers of the elements do bow; +The hurricane, at thy command goes forth, +Walking where'er thou bid'st it, and the storm +Ceases to howl when thou hast said,--"Be still!" +Thine anger stirs the ocean, and thy wrath +Finds out the deep foundations of the mountains, +And shakes them with its strength; the subtle fire, +That lights the tempest on its gloomy way, +Starts from its cloud-rocked slumber, at thy call, +To be thy messenger. +Canst thou not be content when thou art feared +By those who rule a world? What is there yet +Which thy insatiate mind desires to know? +Would'st learn immortal mysteries? Reflect +Thou art but mortal. + +Werner. + +Spirit, why dost thou +Taunt me with my mortality? "Weak things, +Brought forth from earth,"--"Poor simple child of clay,"-- +These are thy words, when well thou knows't that I, +Though bound to earth by bonds made of its mire, +Am mightier than thou. Were it not so, +Thou would'st not now be face to face with one +Of mortal birth. Thou, too, canst feel revenge, +And knowest how to wreak it; but, take heed,-- +The power which brought thee hither, can, and may +Deal harshly with thee. If thou knowest aught +Worthy of an immortal mind to know, +To which I have not pierced, reveal thy knowledge. + +Spirit. + +We may not tell the secrets of eternity; +But I can show thee things thou hast not seen, +And they may profit thee, although 'twill shake +Even thy proud heart to look upon them. +Would'st see them? + +Werner. + +It is my wish. + +Spirit. + +Come then. + +Werner. + +Lead on; +Although thy path be through hell's gloomy gate, +I too will pass its portals at thy back. +Thou canst not enter where I dare not pass. + +[The cloud closes around them, and moves away, and a voice sings +as it disappears. + +To the region of shadow, +The region of death, +Where dust is a stranger, +And life has no breath; +Where darkness and silence +Their dim shrouds have cast +Round the phantoms of worlds +That belong to the past; +Spirits who sit on +The thrones of the air, +Guide ye our chariot, +Waft ye us there. + +[Exeunt. + + +Act II. + +The verge of Creation. Enter Werner and Spirit. + +Werner. + +We have outtravelled light and sound: +The harmonies that pealed around us, as +Through yon array of dim and distant worlds +We winged our flight, have wholly died away, +Or come to us so faintly echoed, that +Our ears must watch and wait to catch them. +Those stars are now like watch-fires, which though seen +Blazing afar, send not their light to make +The path of the benighted wanderer +More plain and cheerful. +Before us stretches one vast field of gloom, +So dense as to appear impenetrable:-- +Darkness, that has a body and a form, +Both palpable to touch and sight, across +Our path a barrier rears that seems to bar +Our farther progress. If there be, beyond +This wall of blackness, aught of mystery, +What power shall guide us to it? + +Spirit. + +Thy mind +Which, from the influence of matter, free +As it is now and shall be till again +Though art returned unto thy native orb, +Is its own master, and its will is now +Its only needed guide. +Strange things are hidden by that ebon veil, +To which a single wish of thine may bear us. + +Werner. + +Then let us on: +Since we our search for knowledge have begun, +Wherever there is aught that Power has made, +Which Time has ruined, or which Fate has damned, +There let us go, that we may look on it, +And learn its history. What intense glooms +We now are passing through! I feel them part +Before, and close behind us, as we fly, +As plainly as the swimmer feels the waves +That lave his gliding limbs. This sure must be +The home of Death--no voice, no sound, no sigh, +Not ev'n so much of breath as would suffice +To make a lily tremble! + +Spirt. + +Though say'st true, +This is indeed the realm of Death,--at least +It has no more of life than what though hast +Brought here with thee,--I speak of mortal life: +We now are near the Hades of past worlds, +Whose spirits have a life which cannot die. +You laugh! and show the haughty arrogance +Which in your mortal brethren you cotemn. + Think you that he who gave to man his mind, +The undying spark that quickens his clay frame, +Would fashion from the same material +Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go +Hymning around his everlasting throne! +Giving to them a beauty which alone +Could be conceived by him, which has great hand +Alone could mould into reality, +And yet deny them what he gave to thee, +Intelligence! a thing that knows not death? +Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves, +Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides, +Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub, +With a fair foliage? hast though not beheld +Her weaving, in the sunny springtide hours, +A fairy web of emerald-bladed grass +To robe her valleys in? With every flow'r +Of graceful form, and soft and downy leaf, +And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns, +To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came, +With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits, +Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow, +And shake her yellow locks from every hill? +Hast though not heard her holy songs of peace +And plenty warbled from each vocal grove, +And murmured by her myriads of streams? +Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds, +Which moan the requiem of the dying year, +Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap about +Her breast a mantle, wherewith to protect +And nurse the seed, the trusting husbandman +Hath given to her keeping? Are thine acts +As full of wisdom, and as free from blame? +If not, then why deny to her the life +And spirit you possess? + +Werner. + +I did not laugh +In disbelief of what thy words declare, +But they stir such strange thoughts within my mind, +That, as I will not weep, I can but smile. +Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,-- +A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like that +Which, when the storm has chosen midnight's hour +Of stilly gloom, to hold its revel in, +First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent, +And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us. + The light increases still, and in the distance, +Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes, +Since seemingly immovable, and others +Like mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, moved +By magic o'er a tideless, waveless ocean, +In calm, majestic silence float along! + +Spirit. +Let us go nearer, +Now what seest though? + +Werner. + +Worlds like to that I live on, save that these +Seem made of living shades instead of dust; +Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks, +And fountains, gushing from their very summits; +Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens, +And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,-- +With precipices from whose edges soft +And silvery cataracts are leaping down; +Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides, +And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep +In the embrace of the surrounding hills; +The cottage of the hardy hunter, perched +High on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest: +The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold, +And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vines +Bending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;-- +Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams, +And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand; +Majestic rivers, with their verdant banks +Studded with towns, and rural villages; +Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave, +And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart! +And mighty cities, standing on their coasts, +With vasty walls and gilded palaces, +And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seem +The guardians of all they overlook. +Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appear +Like watchers of the dead whose names they bear! +All these are there, but not a sign of life, +No living thing that creeps along the ground, +Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen. +It seems as if on all things some strong spell +Had in the twinkling of a star came down +And rocked them to an everlasting sleep! +Spirit! tell me if what I see is more +Than a delusion; if it be, whence came +These shades? + +Spirit. + +And have I not already said +That these things are, that they are quick with life,-- +Such life as disembodied spirits have,-- +That they are deathless? Thou need'st not inquire +Of me whence they are come, for thou hast seen +One of their number on its journey hither. + The period may not be far remote +When thine own planet, starting from its sphere, +Shall fright the dwellers of the stars that skirt +Its destined pathway to these silent realms! + Thou'st seen the comet rushing through the sky, +And, gazing on the glowing track which it +Had branded on the azure breast of space, +Thinking thy words were wisdom, thou hast said, +"When its full term of years has been fulfilled, +It shall return again." Not knowing that +The light thou sawest was reflected from +That sacred fire, which, in the end, shall purge +The spirit essence which pervades creation, +From the dull dust with which a wayward fate +Has clogged its being! Question me no more-- +Remember what I said--I dare not tell +The secrets of Eternity. Look on +And learn whate'er thou canst. + +Werner. + + There is one thing which I at last have learned,-- +To feel that with the increase of our knowledge +Our sorrows must increase. I oft have heard, +But never before have felt the truth of this. + To know that were it not for this clay mask, +I even now might pierce the shadowy veil +That wraps in mystery the things I see, +And comprehend their secret principle, +Will make life doubly hard to bear, and tempt +Me much to shake it prematurely off, +And snatch wings for my spirit ere its time. +A total ignorance were better than +The flash which from its slumber wakes the mind, +And then, departing, leaves it to itself, +In the wide maze of error, darkly groping. + Wisdom is not the medicine to heal +A discontented mind. I now know more +Than when I left the earth, but feel that I +Have bought my knowledge with increase of sorrow. + +Spirit. + + Did I not tell thee that its path were steep, +And hard to climb, and thick beset with thorns,-- +And that its tempting, longed-for fruit, tho' bought +With a great price, is full of bitterness? +If though art satisfied, let us retrace +Our way to earth again; wert thou to go +Yet farther on, thou might'st regret the more +Our coming hither. + +Werner. + + What! is there aught still more remote than these +From the great centre of the universe,-- +The fair domain of life and living things? + +Spirit. + +There is,-- +A kingdom tenanted with such dark shapes, +That angels shudder when they look on them! +Thou surely dost not wish to visit it. + +Werner. + + Why not? There is within my mind a void +Whose vacant weight is harder to be borne +Than the keen stingings of more active pangs; +When it has traced the mystic chain of being +To its last link, it may perchance shake off +The misery of restless discontent,-- +Its fulness then may sink it into rest. + +Spirit. + + I have no power to disobey thy word; +If thou wilt on, I must proceed with thee, +Even though in looking on I share the pangs +Of those who suffer. + +Werner. + + Come, then, I too must see them, tho' it cost +Me years of pain to gaze but for a moment. + +Spirit. + + 'Twere harder now to find Eve's' buried dust, +Than to declare who has inherited +The largest portion of her prying spirit. + +(Sings.) + +Where Pain keepeth vigil + With Sorrow and Care, +And Horror sits watching + By dull-eyed Despair,-- +Where the Spirit accurst + Maketh moan in its wo, +Thy wishes direct us, + And thither we go. + +[Exeunt. + + +ACT III. + +Scene I. Near the place of the damned. Enter Werner and Spirit. + +Werner. + + What piercing, stunning sounds assail my ear! +Wild shrieks and wrathful curses, groans and prayers, +A chaos of all cries! making the space +Through which they penetrate to flutter like +The heart of a trapped hare,--are revelling round us. + Unlike the gloomy realm we just have quitted, +Silent and solemn, all is restless here, +All wears the ashy hue of agony. +Above us bends a black and starless vault, +Which ever echoes back the fearful voices +That rise from the abodes of wo beneath. +Around us grim-browed desolation broods, +While, far below, a sea of pale gray clouds, +Like to an ocean tempest beaten, boils. +Whither shall we direct our journey now? + +Spirit. + + Right down through yon abyss of boiling clouds, +If though hast courage to attempt the plunge, +Our pathless way must be. A moment more +And we shall stand where angels seldom stand, +And devils almost pity when they stand,-- +Behold! + +Werner. + + Eternal God! +Whose being, is of love, whose band is pow'r, +Whose breath is life, whose noblest attribute,-- +The one most worthy of thyself~-is mercy! +Were these of thine immortal will conceived? +Has thy hand shaped them out the forms they wear? +Has thy breath made them quick with, breathing life? +And is thy mercy to their wailings deaf? +Poor creatures! I bad deemed that in my breast +Grief had congealed the hidden fount of tears, +But ye have drawn them from their frozen source +And I do weep for you! + +Spirit. + + What moves thee thus? +I thought thy heart so steeled in hardihood +Of universal hate, and pride, and scorn, +That even were the woes, which thou dost here +Behold endured by others, heaped on thee, +Thy haughty soul unmoved would feel them all; +Accounting its development of strength +To bear the worst decrees of ruthless fate, +Sufficient recompense! + +Werner. + +Misdeem me not, +If I have wept involuntary tears +O'er pangs beyond my pow'r to mitigate, +Believe me, 'twas in pity, not in fear. +But tell me, Spirit! is all hope extinct +In those who here sojourn, or do they look +Yet forward to some blest millennial day, +Which shall redeem them from this horrid place. + +Spirit. + +Best ask your theologians that question. +Some say that there are places purgatorial, +Where Error pays the price of her transgressions +In sufferings that efface the effects of sin. +And other some declare that when the soul +And clay are parted, heaven seals the doom +Of both, beyond repeal. Let thy own mind +Sit arbiter 'twixt these, and choose the truth. +Mark what approaches us, and mark it well. + +Werner. + + I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yet +It makes the warm blood curdle in my veins. +Than it, hell cannot hold a fouler form-- +A thing of more unholy loathsomeness! +Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood, +Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked, +Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam! +A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales, +And through its heaving bosom you may mark +The constant preying of a quenchless flame +That gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moan +Of mingled wrath, and madness, and despair, +Perpetually issues from its lips;-- +And with unequal but unceasing steps, +It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom, +A mocking phantom,--fair as it is foul! + With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks, +And big black eyes that dart the humid flame +Which sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips, +And checks as spotless as the falling flake +Ere it has touched the earth, and supple form +Wherein is knit each grace of womanhood +In its perfection! and with wanton looks +That speak the burning language of desire, +It seems to woo its loathsome follower,-- +Yet ever from his foul embraces flies. +And on his brow his name is written, "Lust!" + Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight, +And sears my brain with its dark hideousness! + +Spirit. + +'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears. + +Werner. + + A frame which may be that of Hercules, +It hath such giant members! and its port +Is martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving. +Its sandals are of brass, its massive brow +Is helmeted in steel, and in its hand +It bears a sword with which, in idle strokes, +It vainly beats the unresisting air, +As if in battle with some phantom foe; +And at each blow it deals, a strong fatality +Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast, +Which deep it gashes,--then in mournful tone, +It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,-- +"I fought for fame and won unending wo." +His agonies seem like himself, immortal. + +Spirit. + + Justice is blameless of his sufferings: +For many years his busy, plotting brain, +Made discord out of union, strife from peace, +And set the nations warring till the earth +Was crimson with the blood poured out for him! +He bears what he inflicted,--let him pass +And mark what follows him. + +Werner. + +A goodly shape, +More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre, +Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars! +A broken harp, suspended at his side, +A faded garland, wreathed about his brow, +Tell what he was, and still employ his care. +With thin white hand, that trembles at its task, +In vain he strives to bind the broken chords, +And to their primal melody attune them;-- +In vain,--for to his efforts still replies +A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound. +And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks, +He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow, +And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,-- +"For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth, +Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,-- +'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus." +Is not the justice which confines him here +Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart +Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness. + +Spirit. + + Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man, +Is but a moral seed, which, in due season, +Must bring forth fruit according to its kind. +The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,-- + +Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,-- +The fruits are garnered in Eternity, +To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food! +If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have been +Of corrupt tendency, or evil nature,-- +What marvel if we feed on bitterness?-- +What shadow next appears? + +Werner. + +An aged man, +Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneath +The weight of years, or worldly cares that press +Still heavier than the iron hand of time. +His tottering form is fearful to behold! +If the fierce scourge which men on earth call famine, +Could incarnate itself, methinks 'twould choose +Just such a shape, so worn and grim and gaunt, +And wo-begone of aspect. Groping round +He gathers from the burning floor of hell +Some shining pebbles, which his fond conceit +Transmutes to gold, and these with constant care +He watches, counting and recounting them, +Till suddenly a whirlwind, sweeping by, +Bears with it all his fancied hoards away, +Leaving him to renew his bootless task, +Which ever he renews with this complaint,-- +"Alas! how speedily may wealth take wing." +And on his front his name is written, "Avarice." + +Spirit. + + There yet is, in this shadowy land of shades, +One form which I would have thee look upon. +Behold it cometh! mark and scan it well. + +Werner. + + Never before in all my wanderings +Through earth, or other regions, where abide +Things now no more of earth, have I beheld +Aught so profoundly mournful or so lone! +So dark a cloud o'erhangs his haggard brow, +That where he turns a dunner, murkier gloom +Prevails along hell's blasting atmosphere! + Surrounded by some goodly forms he moves, +Forms bright as his is dark, who each in turn +Woo his acceptance of the gifts they proffer. +Love stretches out his dimpled band, wherein +He holds his emblematic rose, and Hope, +Bright Hope, that might renew again the pulse +Of life within the frozen veins of Death! +Beckons him to the future,--and calm Faith +Kindles beneath his eye her beacon blaze; +Yet, with such anguish as hell only holds, +He turns him from all these, and will not take +Love's proffered rose, lest 'neath its blushing leaves +Should lurk the stinging thorn of sly deceit. + +Hope's smile to him is disappointment's signal,-- +And the bright beacon Faith so kindly lights +To guide us o'er the treacherous sea of life, +To him is but a cheat, a mockery, +An ignis fatuus, kindled to mislead. + And yet he seems as one who in his life +Had nursed bright dreams, and cherished lofty aims,-- +Had dreamed of love, or wooed Ambition's smiles, +Or to the sway of empires had aspired, +Or, higher still, the sway of human hearts! + Why gazest thou on me and not on him? + +Spirit. + + To mark if in thine aspect I might not +Detect a consciousness that I thy own soul +Claimed brotherhood with his! Thou too hast scoffed +At human love, and hope, and faith, and truth, +Nursing within thy bosom pride, and scorn, +And rankling hate, I till these at length became +Fiends which thou could'st not master! Thou art warned, +Be wise and heed the warning. Let us now +Return unto thy far off, native orb, +O'er which the rosy smile of morn is breaking, +Waking its teeming millions to renew +Their daily rounds of toil and strife and crime. + +[Exeunt. + + +ACT IV. + +Scene I. A peak of the Alps. Werner alone. Time, morning. + +Werner. + + How gloriously beautiful is earth! +In these her quiet, unfrequented haunts, +To which, except the timid chamois' foot, +Or venturous hunter's, or the eagle's wing, +Naught from beneath ascends. As yet the sun +But darts his earliest rays of golden light +Upon the summits of the tallest peaks, +Which robed in clouds and capped with glittering ice, +Soar proudly up, and beam and blaze aloft, +As if they would claim kindred with the stars! +And they may claim such kindred, for there is +Within, around, and over them, the same +Supreme, eternal, all-creating spirit +Which glows and burns in every beaming orb +That circles in immeasurable space! + Far as the eye can trace the mountain's crest +On either hand, a gorgeous, varied mass +Of glowing, cloud-formed ranges are at rest, +Reflecting back in every hue and tint, + +Purple and crimson, orange and bright gold, +The sunny smile with which Morn hails the world. + Beneath me all is quiet yet and calm, +For the dim shadow of the silent night +Still rests upon the valley, still the flock +Sleeps undisturbed within the guarded fold, +The lark yet slumbers in her lowly nest, +The dew hangs heavy upon leaf and blade, +The gray mist still o'erveils the unruffled lake, +And all is tranquil as an infant's sleep; +Tranquil around me, but not so within, +For in my breast a thousand restless thoughts +Conflict in wild, chaotical confusion. +Thoughts of long bygone years, and things that were +But are no more, and thoughts that sternly strive +To grapple with the mysteries I late +Have looked upon; for I, since yesternight, +Have traversed the wide sea of space that rolls +Between the shores of this and other worlds; +Have gazed upon and scanned those worlds, or shades +That wear the lineaments of such; have seen +The damned in their own place, and marked the deep, +Terrific retribution Error brings +To such as are her votaries in life. + And now I feel how baseless was my hope +That Peace, the solitary boon I crave, +Might spring from knowledge. Tis a fatal tree, +Which ever hath borne bitter fruit, since first +'Twas set in Paradise. But I must seek +The cottage of some honest mountaineer, +Who may afford me nurture and repose, +For I am weary, both in mind and frame. +[Exit. + +Scene II. A chamber in the cottage of Manuel. Albert asleep. +Rebecca standing by his couch. + +Rebecca. + + My boy! my beautiful, my dearest hope! +The garner where my trust of future joy +Is treasured. Heaven bless thee! May thy life, +If it seem good to Him who gave it, be +Blest to the fulness of a mother's prayer! + +[She stoops to kiss him, and continues. + +How well his sleep portrays a quiet mind, +The embodied image of a sunny day, +A day without a cloud, whose only voices +Arise from sighing airs, and whispering leaves, +And tell-tale brooks that of their banks beseech +A gift, a wreath of their sweet flowers, wherewith +To soothe the angry Geni of the deep! +And free, glad birds that flit from bough to bough, +And ring their songs of love in the clear air, +Till heaven is filled with gushing melody, +And the all-glowing horizon becomes +A thing of life, whose breath is sweetest music! + +[Kisses him again, and continues. + +His brow to me is as a spotless page, +Whereon is traced the story of my first +And only love, the bright and holy dream +That stole into my bosom, when beside +The crystal stream that threads a neighbouring vale, +I and his father watched our fathers' flocks, +And he would lay aside his shepherd's pipe, +And in low words, far sweeter than its music, +Talk of the sun and stars and gentle moon, +The earth and all its loveliness, the trees +And shrubs and flowers; how these were all pervaded +And quickened by the spirit of deep love; +Till, by the frequent blush that tinged my cheek, +The light that would break from my downcast eyes, +And the quick beat of my too happy heart, +Emboldened, he poured out his own pure passion, +On my enchanted ear! Since then my life +Has had no eras,--days, and months, and years, +Have all gone by uncounted, in the full, +Deep, fervent, soul-sufficing happiness, +Of all I prayed for, panted for, obtained! +But I must rouse him, it is time his flock +Should leave the fold, and-- + +[The boy starts and murmurs in his sleep. + +Down by yonder stream, +Where the green willows cluster thickest, there +They dwell. 'Tis scarce so far as I could cast +A pebble from my sling. Seek it, and they +Will minister to thee what thou mayest need. + +[He awakes, and recognising his mother, exclaims-- + +Ah, mother! I have dreamed so strange a dream, +So strange, and yet so palpable, that I +Believed it a reality. Methought +As closely followed by my bleating flock, +I climbed the rugged mountain side where spring +Our greenest pastures, singing as I went, +I met a lonely wanderer in my way, +Of brow so pale, and eye so darkly sad, +That my own heart, to sadness little used, +Grew heavy at the sight; and he seemed worn +And very weary, not so much with toil +As by some hidden, inward strife of soul, +Which even then seemed raging in his breast. + He stayed to question me where he might find +The cottage of some honest mountaineer, +Where he might crave the boons of rest and food,-- +And mindful of the lesson taught by thee, +To give the hungry bread, the weary rest, +I pointed him to where our cottage stands, +Assuring him that thou and my sweet sister,-- +Fair as aught earthly, and as pure as fair,-- +Would entertain him as a welcome guest: +And so we parted. + +Rebecca. + Thou didst well to mind +The lesson I so often have repeated. +It is our first of duties to give aid +To those who beg for succour at our hands; +For we ourselves, whatever we possess, +Are but the stewards of the bounteous Lord +Who giveth to his creatures all good gifts. +But it is time that thou shouldst seek the hills, +So take thy crook and pipe and hie away. + +[Exeunt. + +Scene III. The side of a mountain. Werner descending. +Enter a shepherd boy, followed by his flock, singing. + +I. + +When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep, +Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep, +I start from my slumbers, and hie me away +Where the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,-- +I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,-- +I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,-- +I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peak +That rises high over them, barren and bleak; +And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile, +In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while; +And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy, +That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy! + +II. + +When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high, +Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky, +Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells, +The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,-- +I list to its gay tones, as by me they float, +And I echo them merrily back, note for note; +With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing, +I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,-- +My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier, +And my sceptre--a mild one--the crook that I bear; +No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy, +I live an unenvying, free shepherdhoy! + +Werner (meets and addresses him). + +Thou'rt merry, lad. + +Albert. + +Ay, I have cause to be so. +(Aside.) +It is the wanderer of my last night's dream, +The same pale brow, and darkly mournful eye, +And weary gait, and melancholy voice,-- +If he seeks friendly guidance, food, or shelter, +He shall not want them long. + +Werner. + +So thou hast cause +For merriment,--then thou perchance hast wealth, +Broad, fruitful lands, and tenements, and all +Which wealth confers. + +Albert. + +Nay, I have none of these, +And yet have more than all which thou hast named. +I have a father, whose unsullied name +No tongue has ever spoken with reproach, +A mother, whose idea is with me +A holy thing, and a dear sister, who +Is fair as pure, and pure as is the snow +Upon the summit of the tallest peak +Of these my native mountains. I have health, +And strength, and food, and raiment, and employ, +And should I not then have a joyous heart? + +Werner. + +Yea, verily thou shouldst. + +Albert. + +And there is yet, +Among the blessings Heaven has given to me, +One which I have not named to thee; it is +An humble home, whose hospitable door +Was never closed against the wayfarer,-- +If thou hast need of aught which it affords, +Seek it, my mother and my sister will +Delight to minister unto thy wants. +There where the wide-armed willows cluster thickest +Upon the green banks of yon crystal stream, +Our cottage stands. The path to it is short +And easily traversed,--so, now, farewell. + +Werner. + + Stay yet a moment. That which thou hast proffered, +Is what I sought. Thou hast a noble heart, +One fit to fill the bosom of a king,-- +I fain would give thee guerdon,--here is gold. + +Albert. + + Keep it for those who covet it. If ever +Thou meet'st with one, bowed down by suffering, +Who calls on thee for pity and relief, +Then if thou heed'st his prayer for my sake, +I shall be well repaid. Again, farewell. + +{Exeunt. + +Scene IV. After a lapse of time. A rustic arbour near the +cottage of Manuel. Enter Rose and Werner. + +Rose. + + Nay, let my silent blushes plead with thee +That thou wilt be as silent. + +Werner. + +Rather let +My ardent love, which will not be repressed, +Plead with thee for acceptance of my suit; +For I do love thee with such passionate love, +That life itself, if weighed against that love, +Were scarce a feather in the scale. + +Rose. + +Alas! +I'm but a simple shepherd's simple child, +Unused to courtly speeches, and they say +That in the world thy name and rank are high, +And that when such as thou do proffer love +And faith to lowly maidens, 'tis a jest,-- +And that when they have won our honest love, +They cast it from them with unpitying hands, +As idly as they would a withered flower. + +Werner. + +Nay, maiden, let me tell thee of the past, +Let me lay bare my heart beneath thy gaze, +And thou wilt pity if thou canst not love. + I loved in youth with love as fond and deep +As ever made the heart of man its slave, +But, ere my hopes could ripen to fruition, +Death came and made my worshipped one his prize; +And though my peace departed when she died, +Yet I was proud, and would not bond to sorrow, +But with calm brow and eye, and smiling lip, +I mingled with the giddy thoughtless world, +Seeking from out its varied realms to wring +Some recompense for that which I had lost. +Wealth, fame, and power, I sought for and obtained, +Yet found them only gilded mockeries. +The paths of hidden knowledge I essayed, +And trod their mazy windings till they led +My footsteps--whither I may not disclose,-- +But all availed me nothing, still my heart +Ached with the dreary void lost love had made, +Ached ever till that void was filled by thee! + Since first fate led me to your kindly door, +Three times the moon with full-orbed light hath shone, +Thrice thirty times, with song of merry birds +And breath of fragrance, Morn has blest the earth +And all its dwellers with her radiant presence; +Thrice thirty times, with star-bound brow, dim Night +Hath kept her tearful watch above the earth; +And every time the full-orb'd moon hath shone, +And every time the merry Morn hath smiled, +And every time dim Night with star-bound brow +Above the earth hath kept her tearful watch, +My heart has added to its store of love, +Its pure, deep, fervent, passionate love for thee! + By all my hopes of heaven, my words are true. +Dost thou not pity now? + +Rose. + +Ay, more! My heart, +And its full treasury of maiden love, +Never before surrendered to another, +I pledge to thee, as thine, for evermore! + +[Exeunt. + +An Aerial Chorus. + +Seek the dell and seek the bower, +Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, + Search for buds of sweetest breath, +Search for flowers of brightest hue; + Fit to weave the bridal wreath, +Of a maid so fair and true. + +She has bowed the haughty heart, + Won the stubborn will from guile, +With no aid of other art + Than the sweet spell of her smile! + +Seek the dell and seek the bower, +Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, + Search for buds of sweetest breath, +Search for flowers of brightest hue; + Fit to weave the bridal wreath, +Of a maid so fair and true! + +[Exeunt. + + +Note to the Misanthrope + +"Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, +Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, +Love's apple,--and when we have found it, +Draw the magic circles round it." + +Considering the Mandrake, many fabulous notions were entertained +by the ancients; and they never attempted to extract it from the +earth, without the previous performance of such ceremonies as they +considered efficacious in preventing the numerous accidents, dangers, +and diseases, to which they believed the person exposed who was +daring enough to undertake its extraction. The usual manner of +obtaining it was this:--When found, three times a circle was drawn +around it with the point of a naked sword, and a dog was then +attached to it and beaten, until by his struggles it was disengaged +from the earth. + +It was supposed to be useful in producing dreams, philters, charms +&c.; and also to possess the faculties of exciting love, and +increasing population. + +The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is +drinking the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence +it was called Love-apple. + +It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant. + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS + +TO ISABEL +A Beautiful Little Girl. + +Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower, + Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep; +Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power + Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep +Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower + Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep +O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,-- +Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child. + +Thy presence is a spell of holiness, + From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,-- +Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless, + As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,-- +Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress + Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack +Of misery, and charmed by what she hears, +Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears. + +And when I look upon thee, bearing now + The promise of such loveliness, I ask +If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow, + So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask +Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou + Art learning in thy soul the bitter task +Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow +Of hope is o'er--but this I may not know. + +My path will not be near to thine through life,-- + Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee; +Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife, + And all that sorrow has of agony; +My future, as my past was, will be rife + With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;" +Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years, +Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears. + +'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made + A wreck of my own happiness, and cast +Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade + That wrinkled age flings over all at last +But let it go,--I have too long delayed + The remedy, and what is past is past;-- +And could I live those vanished moments o'er, +My heart would wander as it strayed before. + +I know not how it is,--my heart is stern, + And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness; +Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn, + And in my bosom's innermost recess, +Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn + With a wild strength which nothing can repress! +Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold +And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould? + +Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom, + Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move, +I trace the lineaments of one to whom + My soul was wedded in an early love,-- +'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb + Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above +Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept + That mine should in its bondage still be kept. + +I mind the hour I stood beside the clay + I had so loved in life--it still was fair, +Surpassing fair, in death; and as she lay + With the thick tresses of her long dark hair +Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray + Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there, +Her more than earthly beauty made her seem +The incarnation of some pure bright dream. + +I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound + About the form from which life's spark was fled, +For ever fled,--wet eyes were weeping round, + And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead; +I could not weep; a sadness more profound + Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed, +Was in my soul,--for then the icy spell +Of desolation freezing o'er me fell. + +And from that hour I have been alone, + Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fate +Be coloured with a brighter hue, and strown + With flowers where mine is thorns;--where mine is hate, +And strife, and bitter discord, may thine own + Be love, and hope, and peace--for these create +The sunshine of existence; may their light +Beam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright. + + +THE LOCK OF HAIR. + +It is in sooth a lovely tress, + Still curled in many a ring, +As glossy as the plumes that dress + The raven's jetty wing. +And the broad and soul-illumined brow, + Above whose arch it grew, +Was like the stainless mountain snow, + In its purity of hue. + +I mind the time 'twas given to me, + The night, the hour, the spot; +And the eye that pleaded silently, + "Forget the giver not." +Oh! myriads of stars, on high, + Were smiling sweetly fair, +But none was lovely as the eye + That shone beside me there! + +Above our heads an ancient oak + Its strong, wide arms held out, +And from its roots a fountain broke, + With a tiny laughing shout; +And the fairy people of the wild + Were bending to their rest, +As trustingly as sleeps the child + Upon its mother's breast. + +Soft, silvery cloudlets, pure and white, + Along the sky were hung, +As if the spirits of the night + Their mantles there had flung; +And then the night-breeze pensively + Sighed from its unseen throne, +And far o'er field, and flower, and tree, + A hallowed light came down. + +But in our breasts was springing up + A something lovelier far, +Than field, or tree, or flow'ret's cup, + Or sun, or moon, or star! +We heeded not the fountain near, + Its song of gladness singing, +For in our hearts a fount more dear, + And pure, and sweet, was springing. + +And she was one whom fortune's smile + Had gladdened from her birth, +Yet her high spirit knew no guile, + No blot nor stain of earth; +And I was but a friendless boy, + And yet her heart was mine; +I knew it, and the thought was joy, + A joy all, all divine! + +From out a braided mass she took + This single lock of jet, +And gave it with that pleading look + Which, said, "Do not forget." +Forget! as soon the waves that roll + The ocean's caves above, +May tell their secrets, as the soul + Forget its earliest love. + +It has been with me now for years, + Long years of care and strife, +And shall be with me till time wears + Away my web of life. +And when death's keen, resistless dart, + Shall bid its sorrows cease, +This tress shall rest upon my heart, +Its talisman of peace. + + +"'Twas little she thought that I stood breathless by her side +listening to the song she sang as she sat by the sea's edge, +pondering so deeply, upon me too perhaps, that the white foam +glimmered on her brow unheeded." +Onagh, The Pale Child of the Brehon King. + +She stood beside the wide wild sea, + The winds howled hoarse and high, +And dark clouds, drifting drearily, + Swept o'er the starless sky. + +Her breast was white as mountain snow, + Her locks hung loose and free, +The foam that glimmered on her brow, + Was scarce so pale as she. + +She sang a mournful song of love, + Of trusting love betrayed; +Ah, why did he who won her, prove + So faithless to the maid? + +"Why pines my heart so wearily, + Why heaves my aching breast, +And why is sleep so far from me, + When others are at rest? + +"Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep, + The cause of all my cares; +For thee at night I wake and weep, + When none may mark my tears. + +"I seek the festive hall no more, + Its mirth no more I crave; +My heart is lonely as the shore, + And restless as the wave. + +"My soul has struggled to forget + Its sleepless, fatal flame; +I know thy vows were false, and yet + My love is still the same. + +"Still o'er the dream I nursed too well, + My bursting heart will yearn; +For ever with me must it dwell,-- + Oh, wanderer, return!" + +A white sail fluttered in the wind, + A light bark skimmed the sea,-- +It came like hope across the mind, + As swift and silently. + +The shell-strewn beach that edged the main, + A manly footstep pressed; +The wanderer had returned again,-- + The maiden's heart was blessed! + + +THE DESERTED. + +"Come, sit thee by my side once more, + 'Tis long since thus we' met; +And though our dream of love is o'er, + Its sweetness lingers yet. +Its transient day has long been past, + Its flame has ceased to burn,-- +But Memory holds its spirit fast, + Safe in her sacred urn. + +"I will not chide thy wanderings, + Nor ask why thou couldst flee +A heart whose deep affection's springs + Poured forth such love for thee! +We may not curb the restless mind, + Nor teach the wayward heart +To love against its will, nor bind + It with the chains of art. + +"I would but tell thee how, in tears + And bitterness, my soul +Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years, + Which it could not control. +And how the thought that clingeth to, + And twineth round the past, +For ever in my heart shall glow, + And be save one my last. + +"They say thou hast another's love,-- + Well, cherish it, but thou +Its lack of strength and depth wilt prove, + Should sorrow cloud thy brow. +Though she may own a statelier form, + A fairer cheek than mine, +Her heart cannot so well and warm, + Respond each throb of thine." + +Her words were gentle, but their tone + Was sad as sorrow's sigh,-- +A tear-drop trembled in his own + As he sought her downcast eye. +A chord was struck within his breast + That long untouched had lain, +Old memories started from their rest,-- + The maid was loved again. + +Stanzas. + +On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul, + Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneath +Its many griefs, and spurning faith's control, + Pants with an earnest longing for the death +Which would for ever close its dark career, + With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier; +When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life, + First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast, +And the heart sickens with the bootless strife + That wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest; +Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress, + Should strike it into utter nothingness. + +Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come, + The mind will wrestle with the mystery +That clouds its being! from its clay-made home, + Its dwelling of a m6ment, it will flee +Into the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN, + In its vain searchings for th' eternal throne +Of that Omnipotence which gave it birth, + And, giving it a nature which might suit +A seraph, bound its destiny to earth! + And a few years, in which to eat the fruit +Of life's strange tree, so bitter at its core, + Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and--what more? + +Whence came we? whither go we? All is still + And voiceless in the past! A veil is drawn +Across the future! by life's mystic rill + We sit and ponder, watching for the dawn +Of some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought, +By which our nature's secret shall be taught! +Why sorrow is our element--why sin + Is native in us--by what curse we bear +An ever aching, crushing void within + Our secret souls! and why the little share +Of happiness that mingles with our fate, +Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1 + +Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turn + To ashes on our lips! illusive lights +That cast a moment's brightness while they burn, + Then die, and leave a darkness which affrights +Our spirits with its thrice redoubled gloom, +Making the sky a pall--the earth a tomb! +And yet these are the all of life for which + 'Tis worth the wearing of its chain to know, +Wealth, fame, and power are but toys! the rich, + The high and mighty, with the base and low, +Alike before the reaper Death must fall,-- +So be it! in the grave is rest for all. + +Stanzas. + +When the leaf is on the tree, + And the bird is in the bower, +And the butterfly and bee, + Bear its treasures from the flower; +When the fields put on the sheen, + That to young-eyed Spring belongs; +When the groves and forests green, + Echo with a thousand songs; + +When wild Beauty wanders forth, + Giving, with no stinted care, +All her loveliness to earth, + All her sweetness to the air: +Then the heart, with gladness stirred, + Mindful of its griefs no more, +Mounts and carols, like a bird + When the pearly shower is o'er! + +But the summer's sunny hours, + As we count them, pass away; +And its fairest fruits and flowers, + Are but food for stern decay. +Then with wailings, deep and loud, + Like the sea's in its unrest, +Winter spreads his icy shroud, + O'er the bare earth's frozen breast. + +Thus the spirit's early gladness, + Sorrow chills or time removes; +And the soul, in tears and sadness, + Mourns its perished joys and loves. +Hope will lose its trusting boldness, + One by one its beams depart, +And Despair, with icy, coldness, + Winds its mantle round the heart. + + +AFTER WITNESSING A DEATH-SCENE. + + Press close your lips, +And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here! +Mark ye not how across that eye so clear, + Steals his eclipse? + + A moment more, +And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease, +Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release, + And all be o'er! + + Hush! Seal ye up +Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken +Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken + Grief's bitter cup. + + Ye know the dead +Are they who rest secure from care and strife,-- +That they who walk the thorny way of life, + Have tears to shed. + + Ye know her pray'r, +Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,-- +Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast, + Could peace dwell there? + + A tale soon told, +Is of her life the story; she had loved, +And he who won her heart to love, had proved + Heartless and cold. + + Lay her to rest, +Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew; +For these should shine and fall where lies so true + And fond a breast! + + A full release +From every pang is given to the dead,-- +So on the stone ye place above her head, + Write only "Peace."* + + When Spring comes back, +With music on her lips,--joy in her eye,-- +Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,-- + Flow'rs in her track-- + + Then come ye here, +And musing from the busy world apart, +Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart, + Sweet Pity's tear. + +* The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was +written in that one word, "Peace." It seemed like the last sigh +of a departing spirit, over the clay which it was about to +abandon for ever. + + +LOVE AND FANCY. + + "Whenever, amid bow'rs of myrtle, + Love, summer-tressed and vernal-eyed, + At morn or eve is seen to wander, + A dark-haired girl is at his side." + De La Hogue. + +One morn, just as day in the far east was breaking, + Young Love, who all night had been roving about, +A charming siesta was quietly taking, + His strength, by his rambles, completely worn out. + +Round his brow a wreath, woven of every flower + That springs from the hillside, or valley, was bound; +In his hand was a rose he had stol'n from some bower, + While his bow and his quiver lay near on the ground. + +Wild Fancy just came from her kingdom of dreams, + The breath of the opening day to enjoy, +And to catch the warm kiss of its first golden beams + On her cheek, caught a glimpse of the slumbering boy! + +With a light, noiseless step she drew near to the sleeper, + And gazed till her snowy-breast heaved a soft sigh; +Then she bade sleep's dull god bring a sounder and deeper + And heavier trance for Love's beautiful eye. + +Then back to her shadowy kingdom she flow, + And called up the bright mystic forms she has there; +And filling an urn from a fountain of dew, + She bade them all straight to Love's couch-side repair. + +They came, and stood round, as her hand, o'er his pillow, + From a chalice of pearl, poured its magical stream: +While his red rosy lips, that now sighed like a billow + At play with the breeze, told how sweet was his dream. + +He dreamed that he sat on a shining throne, wrought + Of the purest of gold that the earth could supply, +While a trio of beautiful maids, who each brought + A gift for his shrine, in succession past by. + +First Fame, with the step and the glance of a queen, + Came up, and before him bent down her proud knee, +And held up a garland, whereon played the sheen + Of the beams which insure immortality! + +Next Wealth, the stern mistress of men, for whose smile + They toil like the galley slave,--brought in her hand +The fair gems of many an ocean isle, + And the diamonds of many a far off land. + +And Beauty came too, with her blue, laughing eye, + Her fair flowing locks, and her soft rosy cheek, +And red lips, whose sweet smile told silently + The tale which they seemed ashamed to speak. + +'Neath the shade of a palm branch a fourth one stood by, + With locks like in hue to the tresses of Night, +With a pale, pensive brow, and a dark dreamy eye, + Where the soul of sweet softness lay gleaming in light! + +It was Fancy: Love gazed, and his eager eye shone + With a lustre of feeling, deep, fervent, and sweet; +And he thought it were better to give up his throne + For a place, on his knees, at the coy maiden's feet. + +And from that bright hour, through calm and through storm, + Through the sunlight of summer, and winter's dark reign, +These twain have been bound by ties, tender and warm, + Which ne'er through all time shall be severed again. + +And ever where Love weaves his fond witchery, + Will Fancy the aid of her brightness bestow, +And give the loved object, whatever it be, + A purer, a dearer, a heavenlier glow! + + +LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM + +'Tis not in youth, when life is new, when but to live is sweet, +When Pleasure strews her starlike flow'rs beneath our careless feet, +When Hope, that has not been deferred, first waves its golden wings, +And crowds the distant future with a thousand lovely things;-- + +When if a transient grief o'ershades the spirit for a while, +The momentary tear that falls is followed by a smile; +Or if a pensive mood, at times, across the bosom steals, +It scarcely sighs, so gentle is the pensiveness it feels + +It is not then the, restless soul will seek for one with whom +To share whatever lot it bears, its gladness or its gloom,-- +Some trusting, tried, and gentle heart, some true and faithful breast, +Whereon its pinions it may fold, and claim a place of rest. + +But oh! when comes the icy chill that freezes o'er the heart, +When, one by one, the joys we shared, the hopes we held, depart; +When friends, like autumn's withered leaves, have fallen by our side, +And life, so pleasant once, becomes a desert wild and wide;-- + +As for her olive branch the dove swept o'er the sullen wave, +That rolled above the olden world--its death-robe and its grave!-- +So will the spirit search the earth for some kind, gentle one, +With it to share her destiny, and make it all her own! + + +TO A LADY. +Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church. + +At night, in visions, when my soul drew near + The shadowy confines of the spirit land, +Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear, + Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand; +And forms of light, too, more divinely fair + Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn, +On wings that made sweet music in the air, + Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne, +And, filled with joy unutterable, I +Have deemed myself a born child of the sky. + +And often, too, at sunset's magic hour, + When musing by some solitary stream, +While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r, + And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream: +Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth, + Have whispered words which I may not repeat,-- +But Thought or Fancy ne'er have given birth + To form and voice like thine,--so fair and sweet! +Nor have I found them when my spirit's flight +Had borne me to the far shores of delight. + +Above the murmurs of an hundred lips, + They rose, those silvery tones of praise and pray'r, +Soft as the light breeze, when Aurora trips + The earth, and, lighting up the darkened air, +Carols her greetings to the waking flow'rs! + They fell upon my heart like summer rain +Upon the thirsting fields,--and earlier hours, + When I too breathed th' adoring pray'r and strain, +Came back once more; the present was beguiled +Of half its gloom, and my worn spirit smiled. + +Pray, lady, that the sad, soul-searing blight, + Which comes upon us when we tread the ways +Of sin, may not be suffered to alight + On thy pure spirit in its youthful days; +Or like the fruitage of the Dead Sea shore, + Tho' outward bloom and freshness thou may'st be, +Stern bitterness and death will gnaw thy core, + And thou wilt be a heart-scathed thing like me, +Bearing the weight of many years, ere thou +Hast lost youth's rosy cheek and lineless brow. + + +IMPROMPTU, +On The Reception Of A Letter. + +I would love to have thee near me, + But when I think how drear +Is each hope that used to cheer me, + I cease to wish thee here. + +I know that thou, wouldst not shrink from + The storms that burst on me, +But the bitter chalice I drink from, + I will not pass to thee. + +I would share the world with thee, were it + With all its pleasures mine, +But the sorrows which I inherit, + I never will make thine! + + +THE OLD MAN AND THE BOY. + +"Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream." +Campbell. + +Father, I have dreamed a dream, + When the rosy morning hour +Poured its light on field and stream, + Kindling nature with its pow'r;-- + +O'er the meadow's dewy breast, + I had chased a butterfly, +Tempted by its gaudy vest, + Still my vain pursuit to ply,-- + +Till my limbs were weary grown, + With the distance I had strayed, +Then to rest I laid me down, + Where a beech tree cast its shade, + +Soon a heaviness came o'er me, + And a deep sleep sealed my eyes; +And a vision past before me, + Full of changing phantasies. + +First I stood beside a bower, + Green as summer bow'r could be; +Vine and fruit, and leaf and flower, + Mixed to weave its canopy. + +And within reclined a form, + As embodied moonlight fair, +With a soft cheek, fresh and warm, + Deep blue eye and sunny hair. + +By her side a goblet stood, + Such as bacchanalians brim; +High the rich grape's crimson blood, + Sparkled o'er its gilded rim. + +As I gazed, she bowed her head, + With a gay and graceful move, +And in words of music said, + "Drink, and learn the lore of love!" + +Next I stood beside a mountain, + Of majestic form and height; +Cliff and crag, and glen and fountain, + Mingled to make up its might. + +On its lofty brow were growing + Flowers never chilled by gloom, +For the sky above them glowing, + Dyed them with a deathless bloom. + +And I saw the crystal dome, + Wondrous in its majesty, +Where earth's great ones find a home, + When their spirits are set free. + +By its portals, I espied + One who kept the courts within; +High he waved a wreath and cried, + "Come up hither,--strive and win!" + +Then my vision changed again: + In a fairy-coloured shell, +O'er the wide sea's pathless plain, + I was speeding, fast and well. + +Suddenly, beneath its prow, + Parted were the azure waves, +And I saw where, far below, + Yawn the vast deep's secret caves. + +Where the Syren sings her song, + To old Ocean's sons and daughters; +And the mermaids dance along, + To the music of the waters. + +Where the coral forest o'er, + Storm or tempest ne'er is driven +And the gems that strew its floor, + Sparkle like the stars in heaven. + +Treasures, such as never eye + Of the earth has looked upon, +Gold and pearls of many a dye, + There in rich profusion shone. + +And a voice came to my ear, + Saying, in a stern, cold tone, +Such as chills the heart with fear, + "Seize and make the prize thine own." + +Then across a clouded wild, + Lone and drear and desolate, +Where no cheerful cottage smiled, + I pursued the steps of fate. + +Ever bearing in my breast, + Thoughts almost to madness wrought; +Ever, ever seeking rest, + Never finding what I Sought-- + +Till I gave my wanderings o'er, + By a black and icy stream,-- +Deep I plunged and knew no more:-- + Father, read me now my dream. + +The old man bowed his head, +And pressed his thin hand to his withered brow, +As if he struggled with some rising thought +Which should have kept its place in memory's urn +Till he had cast the shadow from his soul, +Which for a while had bound it in a spell +Born of the bygone years,--then thus he spoke: + +Now listen, boy, and I will show to thee + The import of thy vision,--I will tell +Thee what its scenes and shapes of mystery + Foreshadow of the future,--for full well +I know the wizard lore, whose witchery + Binds e'en the time to come in its wild spell! +And from approaching years a knowledge wrings +Of what they bear upon their viewless wings. + +Along life's weary way of pain and care, + From earliest infancy to eldest age, +Forms, viewless as the soft-breathed summer air, + Attend man's footsteps in his pilgrimage; +And if his destiny be dark or fair, + If Pleasure gilds, or Sorrow blots the page +Whereon is traced his history, still his ear +Will ever catch their warning voices near. + +And they--those guardian ones, who, while thy sleep + Hung o'er thee like a curtain, came around +And fanned thee till thy slumber grew more deep,-- + Flung o'er thy rest, so perfect and profound, +A dream whose mem'ry thou sbouldst ever keep + Bound to thy spirit, for altho' it wound, +Thy young heart now, perchance, in after years, + 'Twill save thee much of toil, and many tears. + +It was a dream of life: of boyhood's strong + And soul-consuming yearnings after love! +His eager search to find, amid the throng, + Some heart to give him thought for thought--to move +And mingle with his own, as twines the song + From Beauty's lyre and lips! to know and prove +The dearest joy to care-cursed mortals given, +The one with least of earth, and most of heaven + +Of manhood's ceaseless strivings after fame,-- + The veriest phantom of all phantasies-- +For which he wields the sword, or lights the flame + Whose red glare mocks a nation's agonies,-- +Or by his star-outwatching taper, plies + His pen or pencil, to gain--what? a name, +A passing sound--an echo--a mere breath, +Which he, vain fool, dreams mightier than death! + +And of a later period, when the soul + Forsakes its high resolves and wild desires, +When stern Ambition can no more control, + And Love has shrouded o'er its smothered fires; +When Expectation ceases to console, + And Hope, the last kind comforter, expires; +And Avarice, monster of the gilded vest, +Creeps in and occupies the vacant breast. + +And then the last sad scene: The sick heart, sore + And fainting from its wounds--the palsied limb-- +The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore-- + The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim-- +The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more-- + The last dregs dripping slowly from the brim +Of life's drained cup,--behind all gloom, before +A deep, dark gulf--we plunge, and all is o'er! + + +ACLE AT THE GRAYE OF NERO. + +It is a circumstance connected with the history of Nero, that +every spring and summer, for many years after his death, fresh +and beautiful flowers were nightly scattered upon his grave by +some unknown hand. + +Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, +named Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, +whither he had gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in +the Nemean, Isthinian, and Floral games, celebrated there; and +whence he returned conqueror in the Palaestra, the chariot race, +and the song; bearing with him, like Jason of old, a second Medea, +divine in form and feature as the first, and who like her had left +father, friends, and country, to follow a stranger. + +Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, +had not cut him off from all human affection; and those flowers +were doubtless the tribute of that young girl's holy and enduring +love! + +Whose name is on yon lettered stone? whose ashes rest beneath? +That thus you come with flowers to deck the mournful home of death; +And thou--why darkens so thy brow with grief's untimely gloom? +Thou art fitter for a bride than for a watcher by the tomb! + +"It is the name of one whose deeds made men grow pale with fear, +And Nero's, stranger, is the dust that lies sepulchred here; +That name may be a word of harsh and boding sound to thee, +But oh! it has a more than mortal melody for me! + +"And I,--my heart has grown to age in girlhood's fleeting years, +And has one only task--to bathe its buried love in tears; +The all of life that yet remains to me is but its breath; +Then tell me, is it meet that I should seek the bridal wreath?" + +But maiden, he of whom yon speak was of a savage mood, +That took its joy alone in scenes, of carnage, tears and blood; +His dark, wild spirit bore the stain of crime's most loathsome hue, +And love is for the high of soul--the gentle and the true. + +"The voice that taught an abject world to tremble at its words, +To me was mild and musical, and mellow as a bird's-- +A bird's--that couched among the green, broad branches of the date, +Tells, in its silvery songs, its gushing gladness to its mate. + +"I saw him first beside the sea; near to ray father's home, +When like an ocean deity he bounded from the foam; +Ev'n then a glory seemed to breathe around him as he trod, +And my haughty soul was bowed, as in the presence of a God. + +I knew not, till my heart was his, the darkness of his own, +Nor dreamed that he who knelt to me was master of a throne! +And when the fearful knowledge came, its coming was in vain,-- +I had forsaken all for him, and would do so again." + +Is love the offspring of the will? or is it, like a flower, +So frail that it may fade and be forgotten in an hour? +No, no! it springs unbidden where the heart's deep fountains play, +And cherished by their hallowed dew, it cannot pass away! + + +THE VENETIAN GIRL'S EVENING SONG. + +Unmoor the skiff,--unmoor the skiff,-- + The night wind's sigh is on the air, +And o'er the highest Alpine cliff, + The pale moon rises, broad and clear. +The murmuring waves are tranquil now, + And on their breast each twinkling star +With which Night gems her dusky brow, + Flings its mild radiance from afar. + +Put off upon the deep blue sea, + And leave the banquet and the ball; +For solitude, when shared with thee, + Is dearer than the carnival. +And in my heart are thoughts of love, + Such thoughts as lips should only breathe, +When the bright stars keep watch above, + And the calm waters sleep beneath! + +The tale I have for thee, perchance, + May to thine eye anew impart +The long-lost gladness of its glance, + And soothe the sorrows of thy heart; +Come, I will sing for thee again, + The songs which once our mothers sung, +Ere tyranny its galling chain + On them, and those they loved, had hung. + +Thou'rt sad; thou say'st that in the halls + Which echoed once our father's tread, +The stranger's idle footstep falls, + With sound that might awake the dead! +The mighty dead! whose dust around + An atmosphere of reverence sheds; +If aught of earthly voice or sound, + Might reach them in their marble beds. + +That she to whom the deep gave birth,-- + Fair Venice! to whose queenly stores +The wealth and beauty of the earth + Were wafted from an hundred shores! +Now on her wave-girt site, forlorn, + Sits shrouded in affliction's night,-- +The object of the tyrant's scorn, + Sad monument of fallen might. + +Well, tho' in her deserted halls + The fire on Freedom's shrine is dead, +Tho' o'er her darkened, crumbling walls, + Stern Desolation's pall is spread; +Is not the second better part, + To that which rends the despot's chain, +To wear it with a dauntless heart, + To feel yet shrink not from its pain? + +Then let the creeping ivy twine + Its wreaths about each ruined arch, +Till Time shall crush them in the brine, + Beneath its all-triumphant march! +Then let the swelling waters close + Above the sea-child's sinking frame, +And hide for ever from her foes, + Each trace and vestige of her shame. + +Shall we at last less calmly sleep, + When in the narrow death-house pent, +Because the bosom of the deep + Shall be our only monument? +No! by the waste of waters bid, + Our tombs as well shall keep their trust, +As tho' a marble pyramid + Were piled above our mangled dust! + +Written in the National Gallery, at the city of Washington, on +looking at a Mummy, supposed to have belonged to a race extinct +before the occupation of the Western Continent by the people in +whose possession the Europeans found it. + +Sole and mysterious relic of a race +That long has ceased to be, whose very name, +Time, ever bearing on with steady pace, +Has swept away from earth, leaving thy frame, +Darkened by thirty centuries, to claim, +Among the records of the things that were, +Its place,--Tradition has forgot thee--Fame, +If ever fame was thine, has ceased to bear +Her record of thee,--say, what dost thou here? + +Three thousand years ago a mother's arms +Were wrapped about that dark and ghastly form, +And all the loveliness of childhood's charms +Glowed on that cheek, with life then flushed and warm; +Say, what preserved thee from the hungry worm +That haunts with gnawing tooth the gloomy bed +Spread for the lifeless? Tell what could disarm +Decay of half its power, and while it fed +On empires--races--make it spare the dead! + +How strange to contemplate the wondrous story, +When those deep sunken eyes first saw the light, +Lost Babylon was in her midday glory,-- +Upon her pride and power had fall'n no blight; +And Tyre, the ancient mariner's delight, +Whose merchantmen were princes, and whose name +Was theme of praise to all, has left her site +To utter barren nakedness and shame,-- +Yet thou, amid all change, art still the same. + +And she who, by the "yellow Tiber's" side, +Sits wrapped in her dark veil of widowhood, +With scarce a glimmer of her ancient pride, +To cheer the gloom of that deep solitude +Which o'er the seat of vanquished pow'r doth brood, +Since thou wast born has seen her glories rise, +Burn, and expire! quenched by the streams of blood +Which her slaves drew from her own veins, the price +Of usurpation, proud Ambition's sacrifice! + +And darker in her fate, and sadder still, +The sacred city of the minstrel king, +That proudly sat on Zion's holy hill, +The wonder of the world! Destruction's wing +Hath from her swept each fair and goodly thing; +Her palaces and temples! where are they? +Her walls and marble tow'rs lie mouldering, +Her glory to the spoiler's hand a prey,-- +And yet time spares a portion of thy clay! + +And thou art here amid a stranger race, +To whom these shores four centuries ago, +Tho' now proud Freedom's boasted dwelling-place, +Were all unknown; the wide streams that now flow +Where Cultivation's hand has steered her plough, +Had then but seen the forest huntsman guide +His light canoe across the waves which now +Reflect the snowy sails that waft in pride +The stately ship along their rippling tide. + +Thou art the silent messenger of ages, +Sent back to tread with Time his constant way, +To shame the wisdom of conceited sages, +Whose lore is but a thing of yesterday; +What would their best, their brightest visions weigh +Beside the fearful truths thou couldst reveal? +The secrets of eternity now lay +Unveiled before thee, and for we or weal, +Thy doom is fixed beyond ev'n heaven's repeal. + +I will not ask thee of the mysteries +That lie beyond Death's shadowy vale; but thou +Mayst tell us of the fate the Destinies +Wove for thine earthly sojourn. Was thy brow +Graced with the poet's, hero's garland? How +Dealt Fortune with thee? Did she curse or bless +Thee with her frown or smile? Speak! thou art now +Among the living,--they around thee press. +Still silent? Then thy lot we can but guess. + +Perhaps thou wast a monarch, and hast worn +The sceptre of some real El Dorado! +Perhaps a warrior, and those arms have borne +The foremost shield, and dealt the deadliest blow +That drew the life-blood of a warring foe! +Perhaps thou wor'st the courtier's gilded thrall,-- +Some glittering court's gay, proud papilio! +Perchance a clown, the jester of some hall, +The slave of one man, and the fool of all! + +Oh life! and pride! and honour! come and see +To what a depth your visions tumble down! +Behold your wearer,--who shall say if he +Were monarch, warrior, parasite, or clown! +And ye, who talk of glory and renown, +And call them bright and deathless! and who break +Each dearer tie to grasp fame's gilded crown, +Come, hear instruction from this shadow speak, +And learn how valueless the prize ye seek! + +See where ambition's loftiest flight doth tend, +Behold the doom perhaps of blood-bought fame, +And know that all which earth can give must end, +In dust and ashes, and an empty name! +Ye passions! which defy our pow'r to tame +Or curb your headlong tides, behold your home! +Love! see the breast where thou didst light thy flame! +Immortal spirit! see thy shattered dome! +When shall its hour of renovation come? + +Shall life possess, and beauty deck again +That withered form, and foul and dusky cheek? +Will Death resign his dull and frozen reign, +And the immortal soul return to seek +Her long-deserted dwelling, and to break +The bondage which has held in icy chains +All that was mortal of thee? will she make +Her home in thee, and shall these poor remains +Share with her heaven's pleasures or hell's pains? + +Wonder of wonders! who could look on thee +And afterward survey with curious eye +The mouldering shrines where dupes have bent the knee, +Where superstition, by hypocrisy +Nurtured and fed with tales of mystery, +Has oft with timid footstep trembling trod,-- +All these are worse than nothing; come and see +Where once a deathless soul held its abode,-- +The wrecked and ruined palace of a God! + +Farewell! Not idly has this hour been spent. +Thy silent teachings I may not forget,-- +More deeply, strangely, truly eloquent, +Than all the babbled words which ever yet +Have fall'n from living lips,--they shall be set +With the bright gems which Wisdom loves to keep; +And when my spirit against fate would fret, +My eyes shall turn to thee and cease to weep, +Till I too sleep death's deep and dreamless sleep! + + +TO ISABEL. + +Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine + Their breath, for I consume with love's desire,-- +Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine, + And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire; +Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine + Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre +Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art +The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart! + +There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings + The scent of aromatic shrub and tree, +And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings, + Thine odorous breath is wafted over me; +How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings, + And my whole being is absorbed in thee; +And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire +That never, never, never shall expire! + +Eternal--is it not eternal--this + Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain? +Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss + Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain +If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is + To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain +Unsighing, so not parted from thy side, +My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride! + +They try to woo me from thy fond embrace, + To lure me from the light of those dear eyes; +They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase, + I have such fleetness as would win the prize;-- +But all the pomps of circumstance and place, + A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies! +Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be +The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee. + +To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge + Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day, +To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge, + From every ill that lurks along the way! +To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge + With the bright flowrs that never can decay,-- +This were a lot too glorious, too divine, +And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine. + +Now listen, love,--this plan shall rule my life + And thine:--In some remote and sunny dell, +Far from the crowded city's silly strife, + My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell; +Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife, + And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell; +And my sole wished for recompense shall be +My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee. + +Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine, + To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r +Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine; + To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r +Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine, + And bow us, in his worship, every hour; +Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown +As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own. + +Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,-- + Come from the world,--the crowd is not for thee; +Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam + Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;-- +Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem + That such as they are, thou couldst ever be! +Come, for my soul adores thee with a love +As burning as the seraphs feel above. + + +These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed +at Buena Vista. + +Warrior of the youthful brow, + Eager heart and eagle eye! +Pants thy soul for battle now? + Burns thy glance with victory? +Dost thou dream of conflicts done, +Perils past and trophies won? +And a nation's grateful praise +Given to thine after days? + +Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold + As the clay upon it prest; +And in many a slimy fold, + Winds the grave-worm round thy breast. +Thou wilt join the fight no more,-- +Glory's dream with thee is o'er,-- +And alike are now to thee +Greatness and obscurity. + +But an ever sunny sky, + O'er thy place of rest is bending; +And above thy grave, and nigh, + Flowers ever bright are blending. +O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, +Balmily the south wind blows,-- +With the green turf on thy breast, +Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! + +When the alarum first was sounded, + Marshalling in arms the brave, +Forth thy fearless spirit bounded, + To obtain thee--what? A grave! +Fame had whispered in thine ear, +Words the high-souled love to hear,-- +But the ruthless hand of death +From thee snatched the hero's wreath. + +Often will the grief-shade start + O'er thy sister's mood of joy, +Vainly will thy mother's heart + Yearn to greet her absent boy; +Never sister's lip shall press +On thine own its fond caress,-- +Never more a mother's eye +Flash in pride when thou art by! + +Where the orange, bending lowly + With its golden fruit, is swaying; +And the Indian maiden, slowly + By her native stream is straying; +O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, +Balmily the South wind blows,-- +With the green turf on thy breast, +Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! + + +A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ. + +Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt +A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt +No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows, +When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes. + +And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest +Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;--'twas strange that a breast, +Which nothing like kindness or pity might move, +Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love. + +Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child +Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild +Was the love that he bore her, it won no return, +And the flame that consumed him was answered with scorn. + +Now the lady is gone with her steed to the plain,-- +Save the falcon and hound there is none in her train; +She needs none to guide, or to guard her from harm +There's no fear in her heart, there is strength in her arm. + +From her white wrist unhooded her falcon she threw, +Her bow like Diana, the huntress, she drew; +And fleet as the fetterless bird swept the sky, +So on her proud steed swept the fair lady by. + +See how her eye sparkles, and how her cheek glows, +As onward so fearless and proudly she goes, +With her locks streaming back like a banner of gold, +Were she not, say, a bride meet for Nimrod(2) of old? + +And he saw her--the chief, from his tower afar-- +As she glanced o'er the earth like some wandering star; +And he swore she should come in that tower to dwell, +Or his soul be a prize to the spirits of hell. + +His war-horse he mounted, and, swift as the shoot +Of the night-gathered meteor, he sped in pursuit,-- +Breathing out, as he went, mad with love and with hate, +Bitter curse upon curse against heaven and fate. + +Urging on his fleet courser with spur and with rein, +He swept o'er the earth as the storm sweeps the plain,-- +And the fair lady knew, by the gleam of his shield, +It was Bohdo, the scourge of the red battle field! + +Then spurred she her steed over valley and hill, +Over rock, marsh and moor, over river and rill, +Yet still her eye sparkled, and still her cheek glowed, +As onward so fleetly and bravely she rode. + +Thus over Thuringia sped she away, +With the speed of the hawk when he darts on his prey,-- +Or an arrow let loose from a warrior's bow, +When it speeds with sure aim to the heart of his foe. + +Then the Hartz, the wild Hartz--the terrific--the proud! +Where the mist-spirit dwells in his palace of cloud! +Where the evil ones gather in envious wrath, +To blight and to blast,--towered up in her path. + +Still her cheek kept its glow, still her eye flashed in pride, +As onward she flew up the steep mountain side; +And fierce as the tempest, and fleet as the wind, +Stern Bohdo, the ruthless, still followed behind. + +To a fearful abyss, whose unhallowed name(3) +By the powers of darkness was given, she came, +And the whirlpool's wild voice, from the dark gulf below, +Came up like the wail of a soul in its we. + +Beyond rose the rocky shelf, barren and bare, +Beneath lay the whirlpool, around her despair, +Behind her came one, sweeping on in the chase, +Whose grasp was more dreaded than death's cold embrace. + +Then she called on the spirits who watch round the brave, +In peril to nerve, to assist and to save, +Closed calmly her eyes, as one sinking in sleep, +And urged her proud steed to the terrible leap! + +A moment it paused on the high precipice, +Then sprang, boldly sprang, o'er the frightful abyss! +And struck its firm hoof in the rock till the sound +Shook the hills, and the sparks flew like lightning around! + +And the foot-print it left has remained to this day, +And no rain-flood or tempest shall wear it away; +She was saved--the brave Emma was saved--but her crown, +From her fair brow unloosed, in the whirlpool sank down. + +On, on came the chief, in his fierceness and wrath, +Nor saw he the wide gulf that yawned in his path,-- +And soon, in the depths of its fathomless tide, +The warrior and war-steed were laid side by side. + +And the mountaineer tells how in sullen despair, +His ghost, imannealed of its sins, lingers there; +Ever watching, pale, silent, untiring, unmoved, +The bright golden crown of the maiden he loved. + +A diver once, lured by the wealth of the prize, +Sought out the deep cave where it lay, and still lies, +And where, chained by a spirit-breathed spell, it shall stay, +Till the whirlpool and mountain alike pass away. + +Twice he rose with the crown, till its gleaming points blazed +On the eyes of the wondering thousands who gazed, +Twice it fell from his grasp, and sank quickly again +To the bed where for years undisturbed it had lain. + +He followed,--this effort the treasure may earn-- +But vainly they watch who await his return; +A red hue of blood tinged the deep waters o'er, +But the diver came up from their dark depths no more. + +1. Bohdo. This hero, as his character is drawn in the original +legend, or tradition, from which the material of these verses +was taken (a tradition which gives the popular account of the +formation of an immense mark or cavity in a rock, called the +"Rosstrappe" or "Horse's footstep,") is worthy of being enrolled +among Odin's Berserker. + +2. Nimrod. "A mighty hunter before the Lord." He built Babylon +and founded that royal line which terminated with the death of +Sardanapalus; whose gentleness and aversion to blood spilling, +together with his passion for his "Ionian Myrrha," cost him an +empire, and gained him an immortality. + +3. "It was named," says the tradition, "The Devil's dancing-place, +from the triumph there of the spirits of hell." + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Mazelli, and Other Poems, by Sands + diff --git a/old/mzlli10.zip b/old/mzlli10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ea1a092 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/mzlli10.zip |